Eternity
by waggishremarks
Summary: Sometimes, the only promise that a man can make for the woman that he loves is eternity. Peter/OC. Rating for references to adult themes.
1. I: I

_When the gaze of my eyes meets yours,  
__I let myself go into the memories of the past.  
__I cloud the reality of my life  
__And live that moment as we were before._

_When the gaze of my eyes meets yours  
__I feel both joy and sorrow,  
__Both the past and the present  
__And yet tomorrow is what I have._

_When the gaze of my eyes meets yours,  
__I see a day in my life where you'll be mine again,  
__Where the memories of the past no longer brings pain,  
__But the joys for the love that forever remained._

- When the Gaze of My Eyes Meets Yours by Robert Kyle Newton

* * *

Another fist slammed into his side, and he doubled over in pain. He was sure that most, if not all, his ribs were broken. Blood filled his mouth, and he spit it out before he choked on the warm, red liquid. The ropes that bound his wrists behind his back were too tight, cutting deep into his skin and making his hands slick with blood, as well. A wave of pain washed over him, and he sagged against the two men that held him between them.

A hand grasped his hair painfully and forced his head up. Albion, supreme chief of the Wild Western Tribes, spit on him maliciously. "You will pay for your king's mistakes," he said in a gruff voice. "You will pay for every life that he took from my army, for every man that he commanded to be slaughtered."

"Please," he begged, hardly knowing if he was weeping or not. "Please, just kill me. But leave my people alone - they've done nothing wrong."

Albion struck him again, and he finally allowed himself to cry out. _Dear Aslan, what have I done to deserve this?_he prayed silently as Albion continued to beat him. _What choice did I make that would inflict this punishment upon me?_

He remembered the beginning of this journey like it was yesterday, the exact thing that had brought him to this moment.

_Two months earlier..._

"Please, don't go," Queen Lucy the Valiant begged him, dancing alongside his horse as he mounted.

Queen Susan the Gentle agreed, grasping the reins to his bridle. "Please," she said desperately. "Let the others handle it. Your campaigns have taken you away from home too often this year - every time, you come home with a worse injury than before."

He opened his mouth to speak, but King Edmund the Just maneuvered his horse next to him. "Sisters, peace," he told them in his gravely voice. "Our brother knows what he needs to do - if he does not ride out with our warriors, any moral they have will be gone."

The High King of Narnia, Peter the Magnificent, glanced at his brother. "Tis not true, brother," he protested. "You must come along as well, for there are many here that are more loyal to you than to me."

"Then I beg of you, take care of each other," Susan said in a final attempt to stall them, hoping the army would leave them behind. "Watch over each other and see that no harm comes to either of you."

The royal brothers leaned down to kiss their sisters lovingly. "We will protect each other to the death," Peter promised.

Lucy's lip trembled. "This is what fears me," she whispered, and then turned from them to bid goodbye to Tumnus with noisy tears, casting her arms around the faun and begging him to stay as well.

Peter turned his eyes from the scene. Their mission was dangerous, yes - the Western Wild Tribes had invaded parts of Narnia. They were pillaging any human villages in the land, killing the men and stealing away the women and children for their own devices. There was an influx of frightened people that had sought refuge at Cair Paravel - they had begged for the kings and queens to save their brothers, sisters, daughters, sons. The kings had taken up the call, assembling an army with enough force to wipe out the Tribes.

And now, on the day of their departure, when they had said nothing before, his sisters begged them not to go. Was there something they didn't know about? Some secret plot only the sisters were privy to? He shook his head to get rid of those unwanted thoughts and turned his horse to face the army.

They were innocent people - men creatures who had done nothing to deserve the fate that lay before some of them. Some of them wouldn't return at all - their bodies would be buried forever under the earth as a testament of what they had done. Others would come back scarred, different, unable to perform tasks they previously had been able to perform - these would wish for death, for death was better than that. Others would come home simply the same, with stories of horror to tell their wives and children.

And him? Peter would return to the Cair with the death toll weighing heavily on his head, no matter how few they lost. Each one was precious to him, each one a different story to hear. Some stories he would never hear.

Edmund nudged him. "Are you ready?" he asked, his dark eyes displaying the same emotion that Peter felt. He nodded and spurred his horse into motion, sweeping around the to come to the head of the force with his brother.

"Narnians!" he shouted, and the din of people quieted instantly. "Today, we ride to the air of our brothers and sisters of Narnia who are being overrun by these power-hungry Tribes of the West." A ripple of angry voices ran through the crowd, and he raised his hand to quiet them again. "The battle will be long - these Tribes are cunning and devious. But Aslan will bring us victory, as surely is His will for His people to see no harm." A shout went up, and the two brothers let the people cry out. Their faith was placed in Aslan - the people were newly reminded of it.

He turned to Edmund. "Lead them out, Just King." Edmund did so, and the people followed him willingly, banging their shields against their chests and giving up a mighty roar.

Peter watched them go, his face quiet and solemn. _For all that is good and pure in this world, please help us, Aslan,_ he prayed desperately. _Let them all come home._

And with that, he turned his horse and followed his men out, leaving his sisters behind.

The trip to the Narnian border was a long one, and it took them nearly three weeks to reach it with how big of a force they had to travel with. Peter had no doubt in his mind that the Tribes were well aware of their march to meet them, and he reminded his soldiers of this fact every morning and night. There were many who bravely spoke out as he and Edmund made their nightly rounds to encourage the troops - these were the men that would die for him gladly, willingly. Every man would lay his life down for Narnia's kings, but it was these men that Peter held close to his heart - it was these faces that he remembered for their wives and children.

It was their last night before they reached the little town of Etlina. It was one of the few towns that hadn't been ravaged on the western border, and they were intent on setting up troops to protect it. Peter left his brother with Tumnus and the eagle Pepperwing and flung his clock around his shoulders before disappearing from their tent to roam throughout the troops. He had not yet toured the southern quarter of his men yet, and he set off to rectify this fact. The trek was long, however, so he mounted his horse and maneuvered his way throughout the quiet camp.

He reached the southern quarter after half of an hour of riding, and he slowed the pace of his horse as he walked among his soldiers. Some recognized him immediately and gave him the noblest of welcomes, offering him drink and food and a merry time. He laughed and smiled and accepted a flask here and there, but ultimately went on to continue his way.

Others, however, did recognize his face and turned their eyes away from the High King with a listless look and burdened shoulders. It was these men that he stopped by, clasping their hands as friends and lifting their heads.

One man refused his hand. He was young, younger than Peter himself, and with eyes full of anger and rage. "I must be frank with you, High King," he said in a gruff tone. "I am here not for you or your kingdom, not for the men around me. I am here for my sister, for she was taken by the Men of the Wild West. As soon as I find her, I will take her home."

Peter sank down on the hollow log next to the man, aware of the crowd forming around them. It would reach Edmund soon, and he'd be along to help. "It is only right of you to want to take your sister to safety," he answered after a long moment, and a murmur went through the crowd. "But would she not be more protected if she is safely behind our lines being tended to instead of galloping halfway across our great country with the Tribes chasing you? She will be ill, wounded - I have no doubt about it." He eyed the man evenly. "Would you really wish your sister death even as you ride with her toward home?"

The man scoffed, his mouth stretching his face into a grimace. "Would they really follow a woman and a single man on a wild chase throughout Narnia?" He spit into the fire. "They would not look at us twice."

"You will have infiltrated their camp," Peter said patiently, but his voice held an edge to it that signaled authority to those around him. "You will have found out what tent they are keeping her in. You will have proceeded to cut her loose and get back out of the camp without them catching you. You will have stolen a horse, taken the time to tie her to the saddle, and then have mounted yourself. You will race through the camp, alerting all that you are escaping. They will shoot at you and your horse and your sister." Peter stood. "The Tribes are not unintelligent. You will be shot down before you can get out of the camp, if you even make it into their camp without being killed."

The man stood defensively. "You doubt my skills?" he demanded.

"If you can make it into their camp and back out with your sister, and do not abandon this force, I will kiss your feet and call you king for a month," Peter said firmly, holding out a hand to shake.

A murmur ran through the crowd, and the man eyed Peter's hand speculatively. "What is in it for yourself?" he asked slowly. "A king would not make that promise to a man who argues with him."

"There is nothing in it for me other than the satisfaction that my soldiers will not abandon me," Peter told him quietly. "I put great faith in people like you, soldier. Please tell me it is not misplaced."

The crowd was silent, and the man simply stared for a long moment. And then his hand clasped Peter's, and they shook their deal into existence. "Do not let me down," Peter said quietly in a kind voice. "I have a lot riding on you."

"If my sister is alive, I will bring her to the Cair and offer her to you as your wife," the man said with wide eyes. But Peter laughed at this and waved him aside, climbing back on his horse and turning back toward the direction of his tent.

Edmund met him when he was halfway back. "What did you do?" demanded the Just King, twisting his horse to stop Peter from going any further. "Tumnus just told me to get to the southern quarter."

Peter shrugged and slowed his horse to a walk, pulling around Edmund. "I did nothing," he told his brother. "Nothing but try and get my soldiers to fight for Narnia."

He had no idea how far his prodding would take him.


	2. I: II

_The sun kept setting, setting still;_  
_No hue of afternoon_  
_Upon the village I perceived, -_  
_From house to house 't was noon._

_The dusk kept dropping, dropping still;_  
_No dew upon the grass,_  
_But only on my forehead stopping,_  
_And wandered in my face._

_My feet kept drowsing, drowsing still,_  
_My fingers were awake;_  
_Yet why so little sound myself_  
_Unto my seeming make?_

_How well I knew the light before!_  
_I could not see it now._  
_'T is dying, I am doing now; but_  
_I'm not afraid to know._

- Dying by Emily Dickinson

* * *

They came too late to Etlina. The carnage was sickening, and Peter felt tears wet his eyes as he surveyed the destruction that had been done upon the peaceful village. A fire still burned brightly in the square, licking the broken fountain and the bodies still bleeding in the street. Glass littered the stones across the city. The Narnian flag had been torn from the post it had once hung from proudly - the golden face of the Lion now lay dirty and charred in the street.

The soldiers were silent as they tread through the city. There were many who wept - some who howled in grief at the sight of loved ones dead. Peter had dismounted at the gate of the city and allowed Edmund to lead them through the naked streets, watching soldiers slide around him as he watched the carnage from a distance.

He took a few hesitant steps inside the village, and immediately fell to his knees beside the small, broken body of a child. He could not stop the tears - they came in a flood, and he kneeled in the mud weeping for this child. His wails must have been heard by Edmund, because his brother's mouth was suddenly next to his ear. "Peace, brother," he breathed. "You must be strong for our soldiers." The Just King's voice was laced with the sorrow that Peter hadn't been able to keep bottled up.

His tears slowed, and he was finally able to stand and make his way through the town. His resolve grew with every step he took, and he broke from Edmund to clap a few of his heartbroken men on the shoulders. The horrors that this town had gone through - they had been a day late. If they would have marched even a mile longer each day, they could have saved them.

_Peace, Peter_, came a still voice, and he looked up in surprised. Edmund gave him a strange look, but he ignored his brother. _Do not weep for My children any longer - they are with me now. Peace, Peter - they are with Me in My Country._

It was the gentle voice of Aslan that whispered in his ear, and his heart filled with courage as he mounted the broken fountain with his brother. A look of understanding passed between his brother and him, and Edmund's jaw tightened in anger and courage. Revenge stirred in the crowd, and there were suddenly angry voices raised around them. They shouted and raged and smashed their fists against their shields. The din was nearly deafening, and Peter had to shout as loud as he could to quiet them.

"Men of Narnia, a grievous thing has been done upon this day," he yelled into the crowd, sweeping his hand across the ravaged city. "The Tribes have taken the lives of our children, our friends, our mothers and daughters, our sons and fathers. Today they are in Aslan's Country." A silence fell over the crowd at the mention of the great Lion, but Peter plowed ahead. "We cry for our dead and gone, but we also honor their memory by freeing those who have been taken, by driving these barbaric Tribes from our lands, and restoring the cities upon which they have plundered." A shout rose up again, and Peter clapped Edmund on the shoulder and turned to Orieus, who stood a few paces away. "You and I will march with two hundred of our best," he told the centaur. "Edmund will lead the great mass, and we will march to strike their flank." The centaur nodded and went to make this well known. He was well aware of those who were the best, and would gather them quickly.

They found survivors - no more than twenty, the blessed few that had managed to hide in their cellars and store rooms - but most were injured and still reeling from the shock of the massacre. But Peter was quite sure that he had never heard a more joyous reunion than that between a husband and wife. The wife had hidden in the cellar of her home inside an empty barrel. It was lucky that the Tribes had not discovered the door beneath the rug in the kitchen. She had emerged, and upon seeing the troops, she had let loose such a cry that the city had fallen silent at the sight of her. Her husband recognized her crying his name, and they had met in the city weeping for joy and sorrow. They were young, in love, and Peter had to force down the feelings of regret that they had nearly been separated, and would be separated again the next day. But the wife had agreed to march with them - she was skilled in healing and would be of great use to those in the healing tents.

They lit candles for the dead and send them floating down the River Junire, tiny lights in the gloom of the night to bring them peace and comfort. The company sang dirges, their voices filling the still night air like a mournful sigh. They set up camp in the afternoon, and they company seemed to grow more lighthearted as their songs changed into celebration for Aslan and the love that He had for His people.

Peter and Edmund watched the men from where they camped on a hill further up, finding solace in the company of each other. "Tomorrow will be a day of vengeance," Edmund noted quietly, folding his arms across his chest.

Peter glanced up from where he poured over the map of Narnia, tracing a finger along the best routes to take for their attack the following day. "Indeed," he said in a low voice, following Edmund's gaze to view the flickering fires scattered in the valley below them. "Many of our soldiers were from Etlina - it is a tragedy that will stay with them forever. But the wound is fresh in their hearts - they go to war to kill, no longer for honor."

Edmund turned, his eyes clouded with worry. "Aslan would not approve of this - he would not approve of this hatred, brother."

Peter sighed. "I am in agreement with you," he said, stepping away from the light that enveloped him and into the darkness to stand with his brother. "But they will go and fight if we try and stop them. We shall remind them in the morning that Aslan must be in the forefront of our minds."

There were hoof steps behind them, and the brothers turned to find Orieus approaching. "The troops have all been alerted, my Kings," he said, dipping his head at them. Edmund smiled comfortingly at the centaur and went to clasp hands with him.

Peter, however, continued his survey of the camp below him, watching as it stilled with the growing darkness around them. There was so much revenge to be had here - so much bloodshed. What would Aslan have them do, though? Abandon the memory of those who had died and do nothing? No - they had to press forward. It was the only thing they could do at this point. Anything else would be deemed cowardice, even by Aslan himself.

He turned and brushed past Edmund, disappearing inside their dark tent. Tomorrow would be their reckoning day, and Aslan would deal with them when they were finished.

* * *

They watched the troop of two hundred march along the ravine floor. Their archers were in place, their scouts ready to send arrows flying into the midst of the small troop. But something held them in place - an unspoken signal from the man mounted upon the black stallion, his chest bare and his face stern.

"Find the King," he murmured to the man that stood next to his horse. "The king does not parade his status around in this group, and the troop move so much that it is nearly impossible to define a clear leader. But the High King walks among them - find him." The man touched his thumb knuckle to his forehead in the traditional Tribe greeting and farewell before he disappeared among the trees to pass the news.

This was Albion, chief supreme of the Wild Tribes of the West. He was known by many as a heartless, cruel, and unforgiving ruler. To others, he was merciful beyond compare. Some said he was a spawn of Jadis the Witch herself - others insisted that only Aslan could have created such a being as he. Whoever he really was, however, was a mystery to all, and Albion preferred it that way. He favored a man one day, and the next the man was being executed for a petty offense. It kept his people loyal, strong, and hardened against any sort of outward influence.

This group of creatures, men and Animals alike, would fall - how could two hundred possibly stand against the seven hundred that lay in wait beyond the next hill, waiting for the three short blasts of the battle horn to call them forward. This group of men and of animals and beasts and creatures hideous and disgusting - they would perish in the next hour. None would be spared.

Albion turned to the man that approached on horseback. "Blow the horn," he told him in a low tone. "Now."

And to battle they went.

* * *

They sprung from everywhere, and Peter barely had time to draw Rhindon before they were upon him. His dumb horse screamed in as a dagger plunged through the soft skin of its belly, and Peter went tumbling down into the fray. He came up with the gritty taste of mud in his mouth, and he couldn't see for the grime that covered his eyes.

Orieus was at his side in an instant, hoisting him up and defending him while he got his bearings back. "My liege, we are ambushed," he cried, pausing for a moment after striking down a tall, reedy man. "What are your orders?"

Peter blocked a blow from a large man with a tattoo across his chest with his shield and threw all his weight into his sword, watching as the man fell with a bloody slash across his bare chest. He glanced around, watching the soldiers pour over the hill. One man sat above the rest on horseback, surveying the battle as it raged below him. This could only be the man who was orchestrating the attack.

His eyes flickered up to Orieus. "Signal for the retreat," he panted, kneeling beside his dead horse to pull his daggers free from his saddle bags. His bow came next, and he slung it across his shoulders. He rarely used his bow, but it would be good to have with him.

Orieus didn't move, and Peter whirled around. "Signal for the retreat," he said harshly. "I will not see my army die in this ravine. Use the signal for Cair Paravel - make them understand that they are to flee from this place and go as far as they can. Make them understand that they are to alert my brother, and then my sisters back at the Cair."

Orieus gave a wild cry as he block the blows of another man, a man who look half crazy from blood-thirst. "And you, my liege?" he gasped. "Who shall stay with you to help?"

But Peter was already gone, slinking lowly through the troops and the Wild Men that had come upon them. He was very fortunate that he had not worn his royal helm on this mission, but dressed plainly. If he had looked the part of the King, he would have been shot instantly. As it were, he was free to hack and slice his way through the troops and bring aid to those who were injured.

The horn blew, startling most of the soldiers, even the Wild Men. But the Narnians knew what it meant, and they wasted no time scrambling up the opposite bank and into the shelter of the woods. The trees would help protect them. Only a few realized that their king had stayed to fight, and they dashed back to help their sovereign lord in his campaign.

Soon, only five remained, the cold rain tuning their armor to ice against their skin. The faun shivered violently, clutching at his wounded arm but refusing to go. One man had lost his sword and now fought with just a dagger and his bow. The leopard had a bloody gash along his underbelly, staining the frosted grass red. Only the eagle and the other man that remained seemed unharmed, standing tall and proud next to the others.

Peter glanced around, his eyes warily tracking the slow advance of the troops before him. "I am glad that you are with me," he said with a tremble in his voice. The soldiers around him did not comment, but tightened their grips on their weapons. But there was nothing they could do.

The Wild Men were upon them in an instant. They cut down the faun with a scream and crushed the leopard with a single swipe of their sword. Peter gave a guttural cry and threw his weight into the man that charged at him. They tumbled down into the mud, grappling for control. Peter finally won as he slid a dagger between the man's ribs, wiping the grime from his face with a bloodstained hand.

At once there was a painful blow to his side, and he cried out in pain as he fell back toward the wet earth. Another one, this time sharp and white-hot. His helm was lost to him, exposing his neck and head to the elements. He forced his eyes open and lunged for his fallen sword, only to find it trapped beneath the man he had killed. He cursed and scrambled to his knees.

But they had surrounded him, pointing arrows at his head and a sword at his throat. He fell back down into the mud, knowing that he would be killed the instant he moved.

The circle parted for a moment, and the two men that had stayed with him were thrown into the mud at his feet, moaning in pain and half-dead already. A bare chested man on horseback followed, observing the trio carefully. "Tell me," he said, motioning to Peter. "Where is your king."

The sword at his throat came dangerously closer, pressing into his skin painfully. "Gone," he gasped. "He led the retreat." A horn sounded somewhere in the distance, and then circle around him shifted uneasily.

The man glanced in the direction of the horn. "Take them back to camp," he said after a long pause. "I have not the patience to deal with them today." He leaned down and grasped Peter's hair, yanking him up to his feet. "You shall regret this day."

Hands seized Peter under the arms, dragging him away from the scene of bloody carnage. Pain exploded in the back of his head, and the world went dark.


	3. I: III

_Do not stand at my grave and weep,  
__I am not there, I do not sleep.  
_

_I am in a thousand winds that blow,  
__I am the softly falling snow.  
__I am the gentle showers of rain,  
__I am the fields of ripening grain._

_I am in the morning hush,  
__I am in the graceful rush  
__Of beautiful birds in circling flight,  
__I am the starshine of the night._

_I am in the flowers that bloom,  
__I am in a quiet room.  
__I am in the birds that sing,  
__I am in each lovely thing._

_Do not stand at my grave and cry,  
__I am not there. I did not die._

Do not stand at my grave and weep - Mary Elizabeth Frye

* * *

The rain splashed violently against the windows of Cair Paravel. The weather had taken a turn for the worse, forcing the occupants inside and into warmer clothing. It had been raining for almost three days now without a hint of the sun, and some were beginning to wonder if it would ever come back.

Lucy had brushed the concerns aside. Of course the sun would come back – it always did. The sun was like Aslan, in her humble opinion. Even if one couldn't see it, and even if it didn't make its presence known, it was still there for when they really needed it. She smiled faintly and lifted her hand to brush against the cold glass of her window to clear it of the fog that had crept up on it. Her hand slipped back under the blankets quickly, however, in an eagerness to warm her skin again.

There was a knock on the door. Lucy turned her head toward the sound, finding Susan. They exchanged smiles, and Susan came to slide under the blankets with Lucy, finding room on the little window seat for the two of them. Lucy pulled her feet closer toward her

"I wish Peter and Edmund were home," Susan finally whispered, leaning her head against the wall. "I do miss their presence."

Lucy reached out to pat Susan's hand tenderly. "I wish them home, too," she answered in a murmur. "But it is their duty to protect our great land. They shall be home soon, Aslan willing."

Susan gave a heavy sigh. "And if Aslan's will is to keep them away for a long time?" she asked. "I cannot run this castle without them, Lucy."

Lucy opened her mouth to respond, but a loud horn from outside startled them both and sent them pressing their noses to the window. There, in the distance, was the Narnian army.

"Oh, thank Aslan!" Susan cried, scrambling up and straightening her dress. "They are home!"

"Their battle must have gone better than even they expected!" Lucy said with a gleeful tone, snatching up her cloak and shoving her feet into her soft boots so she could run to greet her brothers. "They expected to be gone for three months, and now they have returned in one and a half!"

The two sisters clasped hands and flew down the stairs together, much to the amusement of the other occupants in the castle. Lucy was the first out the door, falling back instantly to stay under the arch that kept the rain from them. Susan joined her scarcely a moment later, and they huddled close for warmth, already thinking of all the wonderful things they would have the cooks make for their dear brothers.

But where was the music? Where were the joyful shouts? Surely it wasn't because of the rain that they were subdued. "Something is wrong," Lucy whispered, her breath forming a cloud of mist in the air as she spoke. "They are too quiet."

In an instant she was dashing out into the rain, not stopping until she reached the gate. The army was less than one hundred yards away, and she panted for breath as she heard Susan yelling for her from the steps. "Peter! Edmund!" she cried, her brow furrowing in worry.

She spotted Edmund at the front, and she called his name again. But her brother did not lift his head to acknowledge her. He kept his face downcast, his dark hair hidden by his coif. His shoulders slumped forward. Where was Peter? Why was he not with his brother?

Susan appeared at her side, her breathing labored. "Why do they not answer you?" she demanded, her eyes taking in Edmund's appearance and the lack of Peter's person.

Edmund stopped not ten yards from them and slid from his horse heavily, his back facing them as he supported himself with his horse. "Sisters," he said in a thick voice, and they moved toward him. He held up a hand to hold them at bay, turning a face toward them.

He looked worse than dead. His face was gaunt, his skin sickly pale, his eyes bloodshot and swollen. Lucy saw how his body shook, knowing it was not from the cold. Edmund swallowed, blinking back the tears that were visible even in the rain.

"Sisters," he said again, anguish coating his voice. "We return to the Cair with heavy hearts." His hands were unhooking a bundle from the side of his saddle, and he took unsteady steps toward them to lay the bundle in their arms. "Our brother –"

He could not finish. His shoulders shook, and he dropped his face into his hands to weep. Lucy wasted not another moment before she was tearing the cloth from the bundle, tears already stinging at her own eyes. _Let it not be true. Please, Aslan, let it not be true!_

Peter's sword and helm lay in her hands, and Susan was falling to her knees in the mud with a scream that seemed to echo for miles. Edmund dropped next to her, pressing her to his chest as they cried together. Lucy remained still, the cold metal clutched in her hands, the rain on her head.

Finally, she swallowed. "Where is out brother's body?" she managed, trying to work around the bitter, sour, ugly taste that filled her mouth at the mention of his body – because their brother was dead. He was no more than a body.

"It was not found," Edmund whispered, looking up at her with pain in his eyes as Susan wept louder. "Orieus found his things at the edge of a cliff – we assume that he fell –" He could not continue.

Lucy had never been the strong one. But a glance at her broken sister, at her battle-worn and weary brother, she knew that she would have to be. She straightened, locking her emotions away until she was alone. "We must get inside and send our soldiers home to their families," she said loudly, knowing the soldiers were now close enough to hear them. She turned back to the Cair and left Susan and Edmund behind her.

Tumnus was at her side in an instant, wrapped warmly in his coat and scarf. "What would you have us do, my Queen?" he asked in a low voice, his fingers brushing against hers.

Lucy turned to him and swallowed past the lump that was forming in her throat. "Inform Narnia that Peter the Magnificent, High King of Narnia, has fallen in battle. He is dead." She turned and disappeared inside to weep.

* * *

He was on fire. He was being burned alive. He struggled to be released, to get away from the searing flames. But his limbs were like lead, heavy and dead to him. If he could cry, someone could hear him – but his mouth was dumb to him. The only sound he heard was a dull roar, filling his ears and mind and body. _Help, help, help_, he chanted. _Help, help. Water. Cold. Save me. Do not let me die. Please_ –

He wondered later if it was because he said please, or if he had finally managed to make his mouth form a halfway coherent word. Whatever it was, he found relief as something wet and cold was pressed to his mouth, and he sucked the cloth greedily for water. The burning pain he felt in his throat dimmed slightly, the roaring in his ears fell away, the heaviness of his limbs loosened.

"There is no reason to fear. I am here with you," whispered a gentle voice from somewhere. And then a cool hand pressed against his fiery cheek – he leaned into the touch, wishing the feeling would spread throughout his body to sate the fire that ravaged him.

He was saying something, but he didn't know what. It came out as gibberish in his ears, and he realized that it was because of his swollen tongue and the stickiness of blood in his mouth that caused it. But the voice seemed to understand him.

"Safe," it responded. "You're safe for now – that's all that matters." The hand brushed over his sore, tight chest for a moment. "Sleep – it will make you better."

So he did.

The next time Peter woke, he was able to open his eyes slightly, even in their swollen state. Now he was cold from the sweat that covered him, even with the fire that blazed right next to him. He trembled and turned his head to look for another blanket. The pain that shot down his neck forced him to give it up.

A blanket found its way over him anyway, and his eyes flickered to the figure that appeared next to him. From what he could make out, it was a woman. But he couldn't see her very well in the dim room – were they even in a room? The fire wasn't in a grate. He swallowed, glad to find that the metallic taste of blood had diminished since he had last been awake. The woman immediately lifted another cloth dipped in water to his mouth, prompting him to drink.

"You were brought to the camp three weeks ago," she told him, her voice much quieter than it had been the last time she spoke. There was urgency in her voice. "There were three other men with you – one died the first night. The other two killed three days ago." There was the shuffling of boots somewhere nearby, and panic entered her eyes. Her voice lowered even more, and he could feel her drawing close to him, her mouth near his ear. "You were beaten nearly to death for the past two weeks before you were handed over to me for healing. You have been in fever for a week. It broke last night."

She glanced up, and her hair draped across his chest. Her eyes flew around the small space – a tent, he now realized – before resting back on him. "If you have any value for your life, you will try your best to heal as slowly as possible. Albion has already commanded that no one, not even himself, must touch you until you are fully healed."

He was still with the Tribes. A curse rose to his mouth, but he couldn't seem to form it on his mouth. She touched his mouth with her fingers, however, seeing his lips move. "Do not say a foul thing," she whispered. "You have been given time to recover before you are put to work. Not many are awarded such a fate." She slipped away from him, retreating to the other side of the tent to stir something.

"Who are you?" he managed to moan, his jaw aching and his breath catching in his chest.

She turned back toward him. "You may call me Lieumin," she said after a long moment.

He managed a frown at her. "That's a tribal name." He blinked and stared at her again. "You're of Northern blood."

She smiled at him. "Very good," she praised. "But I shall not give them the satisfaction of my name, so this is what you must call me, too." She stood and came back with a bowl of something warm and good smelling.

"You're a prisoner here?" he coughed out, feeling the tightness in his chest loosen a little.

Lieumin helped him sit up, ignoring the groan of pain that fell from his lips as she did. "I have been with the Wild Men for two months," she told him, her hands tucking the blankets around him to ward off the chill. "I was traveling between my uncle's home in Archenland and my own home. They were upon me in an instant." The bowl reappeared in her hands so he could eat. "Their discovery of my healing skills saved my life."

Something bitter and sour was sliding down his throat, and he gagged violently, sitting up despite the pain it caused him. "It tastes horrid," Peter moaned.

She eased him back against the pillows with a soothing voice. "It will help ease the pain," she told him. "You will feel better when you have eaten."

He eventually complied, the taste dimming in his mouth the more he ate. "Thank you," he murmured when she set aside the empty bowl, his body feeling more relaxed and his mind a little fuzzy.

She touched his cheek and smiled at him. "Sleep again. You're still very weak."

He bit back a yawn. "Not tired."

He heard her laugh before he slipped away into the land of dreams.


	4. I: IV

_Whene'er I wander, at the fall of night,  
__Where woven boughs shut out the moon's bright ray,  
__Should sad Despondency my musings fright,  
__And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness away,  
__Peep with the moonbeams through the leafy roof,  
__And keep that fiend Despondence far aloof!_

_Should Disappointment, parent of Despair,  
__Strive for her son to seize my careless heart;  
__When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air,  
__Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart:  
__Chase him away, sweet Hope, with visage bright,  
__And fright him as the morning frightens night!_

_Whene'er the fate of those I hold most dear  
__Tells to my fearful breast a tale of sorry,  
__O bright-eyed Hope, my morbidfancy cheer;  
__Let me awhile they sweetest comforts borrow:  
__They heaven-born radiance around me shed  
__And wave they silver pinions o'er my head!_

To Hope - John Keats

* * *

Peter's head was pounding. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, and the tightness that had seemed to ease in his chest before falling asleep had returned. The pounding in his head reached a climax as the shouting reached his ears. But he couldn't understand it; the language was garbled, twisted –

Someone struck him across the face, sending him out of the warmth of his bed onto the cold, hard ground. There was a screech of anger and fear, and then more of the strange language as he cradled his aching jaw and shivered violently. Something warm covered him instantly, with cool hands on his skin and whispered words against his hair.

"Lieumin," someone spat, and the rustle of fabric filled the tent for a moment as someone left. There was silence, and then his hands were being pulled back from his face. Lieumin hovered uncertainly above him, her face twisted in worry and sympathy. Her hair was falling out of the bands she had wrapped it in, showing signs of the argument that had just taken place.

"Are you alright?" she whispered, her hands trembling as she checked the bandages covering his chest and arms.

"Fine," he grunted, brushing her aside so he could haul himself back into the bed – or what he supposed was a bed, judging on the wobbly frame and thin mattress. Lieumin stayed where she was, pressing her hands to her mouth anxiously. Wordlessly, she held a skin of water to his mouth to let him drink.

"Who was that?" he asked when he was done.

Her face darkened. "Leander," she muttered. "He is in charge of all of Albion's affairs. He was inquiring about your wellbeing."

Peter swallowed and glanced nervously at the flap of the drafty tent they were in. "Will he come in here often to inquire about me?" he asked. It was the first time he had seen anyone besides Lieumin in the week since his fever had broken.

"If he does, he shall regret it," she answered vehemently, scooping up the blanket and throwing it over him. He watched with wide eyes as she stomped to the other side of the tent, throwing herself down onto the bed there.

There were a few moments of silence, and Peter shifted in bed. The pain had diminished from yesterday, but the ache in his bones had grown. He sighed and glanced over at her. "Is Lieumin your real name?"

Her eyes lifted to meet his, and she shook her head. "No," she whispered. "But it would be better for both of us if our real names stayed hidden, especially yours."

"Why do you say that?"

Her eyes darted to the tent flap, ever aware of the guards posted outside. She was back at his bedside in an instant, the bed wobbling slightly as she sat on the edge of it. "Why would Albion keep you alive if you were not important?" she asked in a hushed voice. "You are of far greater importance than even he lets on."

His breath caught in his throat. "And who does he think I am?" he asked quietly. Had Albion guessed his real identity? He would surely be killed now – what would Narnia do? His heart pounded wildly. What would Edmund and Susan and Lucy do? Surely they must think him dead now.

"Perhaps a Narnian lord or dignitary," she said, pulling herself up again. "The tale of your front has spread around the camp." She smiled shyly at him. "It was very brave of you to stay after the king called for retreat."

Peter felt his cheeks turn red as she turned her back, and then berated himself. Why did he care if she thought he was brave? But he found that he _did_ care. Why, he was unsure. He sank down against the pillows, biting his cheek to stop himself from grinning like a fool.

"Are you hungry?" Lieumin asked, stirring something over the fire.

"Will it be the same horrid mush you have fed me this week?" he asked warily.

She laughed and shook her head, scooping some into a bowl for him. "No," she said warmly. "You will not get that again unless you really need it." She sprinkled something into her soup and stirred for a moment before returning to his bedside. "Can you eat yourself today?" He nodded and pushed himself up with only a little assistance from her.

They ate their meal in silence, broken only by the dull scrape of wooden spoons against the rough clay bowls characteristic of the Tribes. He set his bowl aside with a sigh when he was done – he was eager to get back to solid food so his stomach would feel a little fuller when he ate.

"What language were you speaking earlier?" he asked suddenly, glancing up at her when his bowl was half empty.

She lifted her eyes to his. "Tribal language," she said with a shrug. "I had to learn to communicate, and very quickly." She ran a hand through her long auburn hair and covered the soup on the fire again. "Once I learned, they began to call me Lieumin – it means 'quick one' in their language." She retreated to the corner of the tent to grind herbs for his bandages.

They fell into silence, and Peter squirmed uncomfortably on the cot. He had never been good with silence. Lieumin, however, seemed content to sit in perfect quietness and contemplation as she did her daily tasks. He supposed he could not blame her – she had been alone for the past two months with no company, and he had been shoved into her tent without a second thought.

"You should sleep."

Her voice was so sudden that he jumped, and then winced as his ribs flared in pain. She gave him an amused look and wiped her hands on her apron. "Sleep will help you heal faster, you know."

"I thought I was supposed to heal as slowly as I could," he said, raising an eyebrow at her. The tension in her brow relaxed as she smiled at him.

"Sleep," she urged with a laugh. "We shall discuss it in the morning. For now, _barminum._ Dream sweet dreams." He gave a grumble but slid down under his blankets. Such demands from such a sweet lady!

The crackle of the fire was soothing to his head, however, and the sound of her movements lulled him into a state of contentment. She half-sang what felt like a long forgotten melody to him until he realized that it was a tune commonly sung at the Cair. His mouth moved along to the words as he sang silently with her. It was something to do with a violet and a girl and the violet being trampled, and Lieumin dancing in the long grass of the field by the Cair with flowers in her hair and one of Susan's beautiful gowns on. She was smiling, her eyes shining, her hands asking him to join her –

"Lieumin!"

His eyes cracked open, and he caught sight of fear on her face as she set aside her mortar and pestle. There was a moment where she hardly moved except for her eyes flickering to his. When she saw that he was awake, her face changed in a hurry from fear to a reassuring look.

"Go back to sleep," she told him, crossing the tent to tuck the blankets around him and smooth his hair down. "I am sure it is nothing."

The man called her name again, and there was a roar of laughter from outside the tent flap. "Sleep," she told him sternly, but he saw the worry in her eyes. She bent to press her mouth to his hair before she slipped away and past the tent that had created such a barrier between them and the outside world. The laughter stilled instantly once the tent flap had returned to its original place, and then began again in earnest. He painfully pushed himself up, straining his ears to hear what was going on. But they were speaking that cursed language again, hardly understandable with the laughter that surrounded it.

Her voice joined the fray, and he heard a plea of desperation that made his blood run cold. It was followed by more laughter, and her voice rose in pitch. "No!" he heard her yell. "I will not!" The sound of flesh against flesh made him wince.

The voices were growing fainter, testament to them moving away. She was hysterical, now mixing her natural tongue with the language the Tribe spoke as they pulled her away from the tent. There was a pain that ran through his chest that had nothing to do with the beatings that he had received. She was surely in trouble – they had discovered her ploys to help him escape further beatings. It was his fault, and she was now taking the blame for it –

The tent flap moved again, and this time it was not Lieumin that stepped through the opening. Instead, it was the man that had haunted Peter's dreams for the past few weeks – Albion.

"How wonderful to see you are better," the man drawled with a heavy accent clouding his words. "I had hoped that our dear Lieumin would be able to work her magic with healing quickly."

"What do you want?" Peter snapped, feeling his arms trembling from the effort it took him to remain sitting as he was.

Albion stepped closer, motioning to the man that had followed him into the tent. "I believe it is time for us to be reacquainted with each other."

The whip in the man's hand looked menacing, and Peter swallowed. "You said no one would touch me until I was well. I am not yet well."

Albion laughed loudly. "Is that what dear little Lieumin told you?" He grinned, and Peter could smell the foulness of his breath even from yards away. "Sweet Lieumin – she does like to spin her tales. No, I am afraid that she was mistaken."

There was more shouting from outside the tent, and Peter very quickly realized that today marked the beginning of a very short life for him. Albion snapped his fingers, and Peter braced himself for whatever torture now befell him.

* * *

His mouth was dry and tasted bitter when he woke. The air was cold with the absence of a fire. His body burned in pain, and the wet liquid that covered him did nothing to warm him. He groaned and tried not to move, but the chill that had crept into his bones made him desperate for warmth, and he reached down to pull the blankets over himself. It was only half as painful as he originally thought, and he let his body relax slightly.

Dimly, he heard the tent flap open and shut, and something fell to the ground with a loud thud. He found the energy to lift his head, but it was so dark that he could not see except for the shape that was still. And then he heard the low cry, and he found the will to push the pain aside to slip from his bed and crawl to the body on the ground.

"Lieumin," he breathed, turning her over onto her back and touching her cheek with his fingers. They were wet with tears, and from the shaft of moonlight that crept in from the top he found her lip split and bleeding profusely. "Oh, Lieumin."

"Do not call me that retched name," she wept, curling away from him and hiding her face. "Please do not call me that retched name."

He watched her for a long moment before he tugged at her and helped her to his bed, far closer than her own. Her cries grew louder as she moved – she was obviously in a great deal of pain. When she was settled and the blankets were wrapped around her, he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet and walked until he found where the fire should have been. He gritted his teeth and rolled a fresh log onto the fire, adding some straw on top for tinder. He used the flint and stone to start the flames, and then turned as the fire grew.

Her eyes were wide and glassy from the cocoon of blankets. "They came when I was gone?" she finally whispered when he had returned to her side, her hand rising to touch his bloody shoulder.

He winced as she ran her finger against the raw skin and pushed her hand away gently. "Tell me," he breathed, lifting the blankets only long enough to slide under them next to her for warmth. "Tell me what happened."

She began to cry again and shied away from him, covering her face with her hands. "No," she whimpered. "I cannot. Do not ask it of me."

"Tell me," he said more firmly, pulling her hands away from her face and forcing her to look at him. "Lieumin, at least tell me where you are hurt."

She gave a wail and tried to pull away from him again. "Everywhere," she moaned. "I hurt everywhere." She trembled violently, and he pulled the blankets tighter around her as the fire was still warming the air.

"You have taken care of me," he whispered against her hair. "Now you must tell me so that I may take care of you."

She lifted her eyes to his, fear and agony plain in them. "Just hold me," she whimpered, and he gladly obliged, tucking her head under his chin and wrapping his arms around her.

Her tears came and went as the night passed. When he believed her to be asleep her tears would start anew, and they racked her body until he thought she could cry no more. But they still came, and there was nothing he could do for her but press her to his chest and let her moan and wail and whimper.

She was finally still when he heard the morning lark sing outside their tent, and the crackle of the fire die down. But she didn't sleep. Instead, her eyes stared listlessly at his shoulder, and her fingers brushed against his collarbone for a moment. "My real name is Regan," she whispered, her voice hoarse and deep from crying all night. "Not Lieumin. Regan."

He smiled against her hair. "Regan," he murmured. "It suits you." He sighed and pulled her closer. "I thought you said we should not share names."

"We shall die here," she said with a humorless laugh. "I would rather die than endure this for much longer. Pretenses do not matter anymore."

He pulled away from her and gave her a stern look. "You must not give up hope," he told her, brushing her hands back from her face. "Regan, you must not give up hope. We shall not be here forever."

Regan scoffed and threw the blankets back, her skin rising in reaction to the cold air. She shivered violently as her feet touched the ground. "Hope disappeared from my heart long before you arrived here," she said darkly, and in the dim morning light he noticed the tears in her dress, the blood that stained it, the bruises on her arms and neck. "I have nothing more to hope for."

She stood unsteadily for a moment and glared at him – the first time he had ever seen her do such a thing. "We are abandoned. We shall both die here in this prison of ours." She turned to go to her own bed and fell to the ground with a cry of pain.

He sat up and bent to help her back into bed, touching her pale cheeks reassuringly. "There is always hope," he murmured, settling the blankets back around her. "Hope springs eternal when we trust Aslan."

Regan's face fell, her eyes sad and tearful again. "I have not felt Aslan for a long time," she whispered. "I fear that He has forgotten all about me."

Peter shook his head and brushed her hair back from her face. "Aslan is always with us, whether we feel Him or not," he told her gently. "We do not always see Him or feel Him, but He never abandons us."

"Then why has He brought us to this place?" she wailed quietly, pressing her palms to her eyes. "Has Aslan decreed some punishment on me?"

"I do not know His will," he said, and then laughed at the irony of the situation. "Who am I that He reveals His will to me?"

She peeked up at him through her fingers and sighed. "You are a far greater man that I took you for," she whispered after a long pause. "You have so much faith."

"I learned to have faith," he said in a low voice, turning his face from her. "It did not come easily." He pulled himself away from her and stumbled his way across the tent in search of something to eat. He paused to lean heavily against the chair she frequently sat in for her work.

She pushed herself up on her elbows. "You should not be up," she protested. "You are still in much pain."

He raised an eyebrow at her and sank into the chair. "And so are you," he said, a cough rumbling in his chest as he searched for a loaf of bread. "Besides, I am used to pain – I have been in many wars."

He watched out of the corner of his eye as she settled back down against the lumpy pillow and tugged the blankets around her shoulders again. She sighed. "I do not even know your name – you know mine, but I do not know yours."

They were suddenly prancing on dangerous ground. Peter found the bread and turned it over in his hands slowly, contemplating the path that would keep them both alive in the next few weeks. He stood again on shaky legs and managed not to fall over before he got back to the bed.

He tore the bread into two halves and handed one to her, sliding under the blankets with a tremble as he did. He settled on his stomach and propped himself up on his elbows gingerly. "You must never call me by my name," he told her in a low tone, "unless you are sure we are alone."

She frowned at him. "Why?"

"The consequences could be dire for us," he said vaguely, and then reached over to touch her hair gently. "Peter. That is my name."

"Peter." He immediately liked the sound of his name in her mouth. She smiled up at him. "It is a very noble name."

He rolled his eyes and settled down next to her. "It is a name, Regan. Nothing more, nothing less." She only laughed at him and finished her bread.

She did not understand how very bad things could get if that information reached the ears of Albion.

* * *

"The High King lives!"

The noise in the Great Hall of Cair Paravel stilled instantly, and Edmund rose from his seat with a dangerous glint in his eye. "Do you dare speak out for our High King so soon after his death?" he asked thunderously.

The man finished his run up the Great Hall and fell before the table that the King and Queens supped at. "I have escaped from the Tribes camp," he gasped, and Edmund took in the man's ragged clothes, the cuts on his brow, and the bruises around his eyes. "I was taken captive along with three other men, my lord. I did not recognize him at first, but 'twas the High King that stood next to me that day the two hundred fell. He had traded his royal helm for an unrecognizable one – we shifted many times throughout our trek so if the Tribes caught us they could not tell one man from another. He lost his sword halfway through the battle and fought with daggers."

The man began to cough loudly, and Lucy was quick to offer him a drink of water as the Great Hall held its breath – was it possible that the High King of Narnia was alive after all?

When he had recovered, he looked up again. "Six stayed behind with him to fight as the rest retreated – we tried to give them a head start. The faun was killed, and the leopard, but they kept the four men alive." He grasped Edmund's hand. "The High King was with us that day, my lord. He was taken captive along with the rest of us, and I know now that he lives. I saw him in the camp with me – I have only just escaped to tell you the news. I came to the Cair as quickly as I could."

Edmund fell back into his chair, his knees weak. "My brother lives," he gasped, tears coming to his eyes. "Dear Aslan, my brother lives." He lowered his head and wept, and he heard Lucy and Susan doing the same. And then there were happy shouts, joyful noises that filled the air. The fauns were suddenly dancing, the dryads swirling around the room, and Edmund felt hope enter his heart for the first time in a month and a half.

He raised his hands to settle the room. "We must go quickly to my brother's aid," he said over the noise. "We will finally strike down the Tribes and rescue the High King,"

He turned to Lucy and Susan as the din rose again. "You will come with us this time," he said firmly. "I fear Lucy's cordial will be needed, and Susan's bow." The sisters nodded and fled from the room to pack the essentials. Edmund watched the room for another minute and then turned to follow them. This time, he would not fail his brother.


	5. I: V

**A/N:** Wow, it's been a long time, hasn't it? Life has gotten in the way, and then my computer crashed, resulting in me losing basically all of my work. I was pretty upset, and it's taken me awhile to get the motivation to write again. So, here is the next chapter! Chapter six is in the works, so stay tuned for that. In this chapter, we see a little more Regan and Peter. As they are, at the moment, living together in a highly stressful situation, people do things they normally wouldn't. Keep that in mind during the next few chapters. _  
_

_She dried her tears and they did smile  
To see her cheeks' returning glow  
How little dreaming all the while  
That full heart throbbed to overflow_

_With that sweet look and lively tone  
And bright eye shining all the day  
They could not guess at midnight lone  
How she would weep the time away._

She Dried Her Tears by Emily Bronte

* * *

"You have the nicest hands," Peter murmured to Regan, rubbing his eyes tiredly. She glanced up at him from her place at the spinning wheel and smiled shyly at him, lifting her hands to inspect them.

"They are only hands," she finally said, letting her hands fall once again onto the thread she was spinning. "What intrigues you so much about them?"

"You do so much with them," he answered. "You bake bread and grind herbs and do laundry and spin thread for clothes and cook our meals everyday – is there anything your hands cannot do?"

Her hands paused once again on her spinning, a contemplative look entering her eyes. "There are many things my hands cannot do," she admitted. "They are too clumsy for great skill at an instrument. They are too small to carry great loads. They are too weak to wield a sword or to shoot an arrow." She shrugged. "They have skill only for cooking and spinning."

Peter pushed himself up onto his elbows to grin at her. "Yet they have managed to make me better very quickly," he told her gratefully. "They are more skilled than you believe them to be."

Regan abandoned her spinning, standing and crossing the tent to sit on the edge of his bed. "And you shall continue to stay in poor health if you do not stop pushing yourself," she scolded gently, pushing him back against the pillows. "Besides, you are supposed to be playing the invalid for as long as you can."

He shrugged and rolled onto his side, grimacing at the sharp ache that flared up through his torso. "I used to be a man of action," he grumbled, glaring at the tent flap. "Being confined to a bed does nothing for me."

The corners of her mouth curled upward slightly. "That is a very clear thing," she said, and brushed his hair back soothingly. "But you are not well, so lie still." Her fingers lingered in his hair for a long moment, and then she had stood again to pull their bread off the fire.

It had been a week since that night she had come stumbling back into the tent beaten and bleeding. They had not spoken of the event since it happened, but Peter had woken several times during the nights to her muffled cries. He remained still, kept his breathing even, and listened to her weep over this thing that ailed her. The previous night he had rolled over, and she had quieted instantly.

It hurt more than he thought. He believed them to be closer than that – after all, they had spent nearly a month and a half in their little tent together. The fact that she did not wish him to know her pain caused _him_ pain. Did she not trust him?

"I must go down to the river today with the other tribe women today," she said as she handed him a piece of hot bread and a bowl of warm stew. "Your bandages need to be washed."

He eyed her over the edge of his bowl as he ate. "Be careful."

Their eyes met, and she reached out to brush her fingers over his wrist. "Do not be worried for me," she said. "I can take care of myself."

His annoyance and frustration with her got the best of him, and he let a dark chuckle slip out from between his lips. "Which is why you were beaten within an inch of your life last week."

Her body tensed, and she pulled away from him as if burned. "If you ever mention that again, I shall throw you out and let the Tribesmen have their way with you," she hissed. "You know nothing about what you speak of."

"Because you will not let me know," he said angrily, setting aside his lunch to glare at her. "I wake in the middle of the night to your tears. You cannot keep it to yourself. Tell me what ails you!"

She stood and didn't answer. She crossed the tent and shoved her bowl away before gathering the pile of clothes that had been accumulating in the corner. "You have no right to demand answers from me," she said coldly, "not when you yourself keep secrets."

"There are things that could spell death for the both of us if-"

"Death!" she exclaimed, whirling around with her arms full of clothes. "Do you not know that we shall die here?"

Peter resisted the urge to growl at her. "Yes, you mentioned that."

"And I would rather die then spend another day in this torment," she told her, her eyes suddenly full of tears. "You do not understand my pain – you do not understand the sort of torture I am forced to endure when I exit this tent. I endured it before you came – I can endure it on my own still." With that, she threw aside the tent flap and disappeared.

Peter stared at the flap for a long moment, fighting the urge to throw his bowl full of stew across the room and cause a mess for her. He glanced at the bowl on the small table next to him where his meal cooled. Unfortunately, his anger was nowhere near cool. Regan was acting childish. She could not handle it on her own – it was obvious from her lack of smiles in the last week that this would not go away on its own. And the nerve of her! No one dared talk to the High King of Narnia in that kind of fashion. Her threats were foolish and could result in her death if members of the Court heard about it –

_But she is unaware that you are the High King_, whispered a voice that sounded suspiciously familiar. _Can you blame her when you have not been honest with her? She thinks she cannot trust you. And since when have your subjects been demanded to censor their words around you?_

He dropped his head into his hands and sighed, rubbing his eyes wearily. What a fool he was – he was merely a man, not Aslan himself. He had no right to demand that she treat him like the Great Lion and not speak a word against him. He would apologize to her as soon as she returned from her washing – she still warned him of wandering outside of their little sanctuary.

He pulled himself up from his bed wearily, wrapping the coarse blanket around his shoulders to ward off the chill. He shuffled across the room to her side of the tent.

He pulled himself up from his bed weakly, wrapping his blanket around his shoulders to ward off the chill, and shuffled across the room to the collection of books that were stacked next to Regan's bed. He sat down on the edge of it and picked one up gingerly, slipping a finger between the pages to read it.

He was surprised to find that it wasn't in the Tribe's language, and he eagerly devoured the words he had been so deprived of since he had come here. Just seeing words on a page made him long for Cair Paravel, for the games of chess with Edmund, for chasing Lucy around the halls, for Susan and her motherly nature. He pressed the book to his chest, lost in his thoughts about his family for a long time. Would he ever get back to them?

Hours later, the tent flap was suddenly thrown aside, admitting loud laughter and a cold gust of air. He shivered violently and glanced up, alarm growing within him as Regan stumbled through and fell to her knees. He waited until the tent flap closed again before he scrambled toward her as fast as his aching body would let him, dragging the blanket after him and casting the book aside.

There was snow and mud in her hair. Her skin felt like ice. There was blood on her face again from her split lip, come open again. "Regan," he said, throwing the blanket over her and gathering her up in his arms. "Are you alright?"

She flung her arms around his neck and buried her face in the crook of his neck. "No," she whispered through chattering teeth and tears. "No."

"Tell me," he said against her hair, tucking the blanket tighter around her. "_Please_, Regan. What happened?"

Her body shuddered as her arms tightened around his neck and her fingers curled into the hair on the nape of his neck. "No," she breathed, and her shoulders shook even harder.

He reached up to loosen her death grip around his neck. "Please," he begged, pulling away and brushing the hair back from her tear-stained face. "Let me help you, Regan."

She shook her head, mumbling nonsense and weeping violently. He took the time to look over her again – there was a nasty gash on her temple that was bleeding profusely. His eyes wandered across her arms and were surprised to find dark bruises already forming on her wrists. He reached up and gently slid his fingers over the purpling skin. Regan stopped crying abruptly – whether from pain or shock, he didn't know.

"Please," he said again. "Please let me help you, Regan."

She lifted her blue eyes to his – the horror in them was apparent enough. "Peter," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Peter, they touched me." Her face crumbled again, and she fell forward against him. "They _touched_ me."

He finally understood the reason for her tears at night, and he clutched her tighter to his chest. "Dear Aslan," he breathed, running a soothing hand over her shoulders. "Regan, why did you not tell me?"

"What could I have said?" she wailed, beating her fists against his chest in misery. "I do not want your pity."

"I would have helped you," Peter said anxiously, swallowing past the hard lump that rose in his throat. "I … I would have –"

"There was nothing you could have done," she wept against his shoulder, fingers twisting into his hair again. "You still are not strong enough, and they will only beat you more if you oppose them." She shuddered and pressed herself closer. "They haunt me in my sleep and in my thoughts. I cannot leave this tent without knowing someone is watching me."

Peter made a soothing noise in the back of his throat and settled back against the frame of her bed, rocking her gently as he tucked the blankets tighter around her thin frame. "I will not let them touch you again," he promised against her hair. "I forbid them to touch you again."

She gave a weak, teary laugh and shook her head against his neck. "They will never listen to you," she sniffed. "You are scum to them, and I am a mere plaything."

"Never," Peter said sharply, holding her tighter. "You are never a plaything, Regan. Do not call yourself such a name."

She trembled in his arms and did not speak again. When the chill had encompassed the entire room, Peter carefully pulled her up onto her little bed and crawled over to stoke the fire, feeling heat wash over his stiff limbs as he threw another log onto it. Then he was back at her side with water and bread, which she took gratefully.

He crawled under the blankets with her and pulled her close to keep her warm. She sank into his embrace and sighed quietly between bites of bread, her breath cool on his collarbone. She finally swallowed her last piece of bread and shifted closer to him. "Peter?"

"Hmmm?" he murmured, inhaling the smell of her hair deeply. She smelled like violets, or maybe it was the soap she used to wash their clothing.

"You will not let them touch me again?"

He smiled against her hairline and kissed her temple tenderly. "Never," he promised. "You will always be safe with me, Regan."

She curled her fingers against his chest and ducked her head down under his chin. "Wonderful man," she mumbled, rubbing her nose against the hollow of his throat.

Peter laughed quietly and kissed her head again. "You say that now," he said wistfully, "but I am not always wonderful." Emotion suddenly gripped him as he thought of Edmund, and he swallowed. "I daresay I am hardly ever wonderful."

Regan opened her mouth to say something, but he pulled away and climbed out of bed to go get his own bread. He sank down by the fire heavily and chewed listlessly on his food.

There was a rustle of fabric behind him, and Regan settled down next to him as she draped a blanket over his shoulders. "Talk to me," she murmured, sliding her hands around his arm tenderly. "What troubles you?"

"They must think I am dead," he said after a long pause, his voice quiet and pained. "My family. They must think –" He broke off and shook his head, throwing the rest of his bread back into the box. "And there will never have been a body for Lucy to weep over, or for Susan to fix for the funeral, or for Edmund –" His chin dropped to his chest. "I am truly lost to them."

"No," came Regan's warm voice against his temple as she wound her arms gingerly around his shoulders. "What did you tell me last week? You told me that we must never give up hope." He felt her mouth curve into a smile. "Hope springs eternal, yes?"

He was silent, and she held him tighter. "We will get away from here," she breathed, pressing several kisses against his ear. "I promise. We will get away from here and back to our families."

"Do you have a family?" he asked, leaning into her embrace.

She laughed. "Yes. I have a father and a brother." She paused. "My mother died when I was nine." She slid closer to him and ran her fingers through his hair. "And you?"

"A brother and two sisters," he said, resting his head on her shoulder. He had been intimate with several women – the last being a beautiful woman from Terebinthia – but he had never been _close_ to a woman before. He felt warm and safe in Regan's arms, something he had not felt since before he came to Narnia.

"No parents?" she murmured, fingers in his hair slowing down to massage his scalp.

He shook his head carefully. "I do not remember them," he murmured, furrowing his brow in thought. "I do not know why. I do not think they died when I was young."

Her hand crept beneath his jaw and lifted his head so she could gaze at him. "It is a terrible thing to not know your parents," she murmured, brushing the hair back from his face. "I am sorry."

Peter swallowed. He could feel the trembles in her hands, and he lifted his own to grasp hers gently. "My brother and sisters take care of me," he whispered, "just as I take care of them. We did not miss much."

"You missed a mother's touch, and a father's words of wisdom," she said with a small smile as she squeezed his hands. "Who sang you to sleep when you were afraid as a boy, or took care of you when you were sick?"

He glanced down. "I do not remember much about my childhood," he murmured. "I cannot remember much before I –"

He broke off and sighed, half out of annoyance at himself. He had almost let himself slip the one secret he had to keep. He licked his lips, and then leaned forward to kiss her forehead. "It does not matter," he whispered. "It did not harm me." He kissed her skin again, and then tucked the blanket back around her. "You should not be out of bed. You should be resting."

She gripped his shoulders and pulled herself close to him again. "I do not want to be away from you," she admitted sheepishly. "You make me feel safe."

He smiled and stroked her hair. "Then I will come back to bed with you," he said, nudging her towards the rickety frame. She gave close to a giggle and crawled slowly back to bed, giving a few moans and winces as she moved wrong. But they managed to get back in bed and bundled up without further incident.

"You really are wonderful," Regan murmured sleepily, curling up against him. "The most wonderful, Peter."

He pressed his nose down into her hair and pulled her close. "As are you, Regan," he murmured. "As are you."


	6. I: VI

**A/N:** A little shorter than my normal chapter, but I thought the ending was a good way to leave it. Peter and Regan's relationship is progressing nicely, but we still haven't heard from the Narnian troops coming to rescue Peter. But just exactly does Peter feel about being rescued? Please enjoy!_  
_

_my girl's tall with hard long eyes  
as she stands, with her long hard hands keeping  
silence on her dress, good for sleeping  
is her long hard body filled with surprise  
like a white shocking wire, when she smiles  
a long hard smile it sometimes makes  
gaily go clean through me tickling aches,  
and the weak noise of her eyes easily files  
my impatience to an edge – my girl's tall  
and taut, with thin legs just like a vine  
that's spent all of its life on a garden-wall,  
and is going to die. When we grimly go to bed  
with these legs she begins to heave and twine  
about me, and to kiss my face and head. _

my girl's tall with hard long eyes by e.e. cummings

* * *

Time passed. The weather grew colder, leaving Peter and Regan to move their beds closer to the fire to stay warm at night. Visits from the Tribe members became scarce, and Peter began to hope that perhaps they would live out their existence in relative peace. They were even allowed to venture outside, as Regan had applied to Albion, saying that it would be beneficial to Peter's health to be able to walk. These walks were slow and painful for him, as they stretched his side and back every time he took a step, but it was wonderful to feel fresh air on his face as they circled around their little tent once, twice, three times before going back inside.

They spoke of more important things than they had before. She told him about her mother and her training as a young child to recognize different herbs and medicines. She spoke of her father, ill and wasting away, and her brother who was in the service of the Narnian army. She spoke of her home in the mountains, and how much she missed the first snowfall and the changing of autumn. She took joy in the simple things in life – of crisp apples and old books and working with her medicines.

He spoke of his family, and of his fears of being a good brother to little Lucy (who really, he admitted, was not quite little anymore) and of how he had promised someone that he would take care of them, and how he did not think he was doing a very good job. He told her about his love for challenges, and it was why he did not mind battle so much, because it gave him something to focus on. He even told her of the secret place in the Cair that he liked to go to think when the pressures of life became too much.

It was a comfortable existence, Peter realized as they lay together in her bed one night to stay warm as they slept. It was not ideal, but they had food and shelter and each other. He brushed his fingers along her hairline and curled an auburn strand around his pinky. She made a noise in her sleep and shifted closer, burying her head down into their lumpy pillow. He smiled and carefully removed himself from bed to get a drink of water.

He threw another log on the fire and took a long drink out of their water skin. He had been here for more than two months already – Regan had displayed her calendar to him and pointed out the day he had arrived, and he had kept steady track of it since. Two months, and there was not so much as a whisper of Narnians coming to save him. He was truly dead to them.

He brushed his fingers along the papers that littered her work area – Albion had been gracious enough to allow her paper and charcoal so she could write down her medicines. He drank in the sight of her flowing, neat script, undeterred by the clumsiness of writing with charcoal, and shifted the papers to look at more –

"Peter?" Regan's sleepy, breathy voice floated over to him, and he turned to find her blinking at him in confusion. "What are you doing?"

"I was thirsty," he said, holding up the water skin, "and I was reading your papers." He smiled at her. "You have such a lovely script."

She smiled back and rubbed her eyes with the back of one hand. "I believe you are the first to think so," she said in amusement, and then reached her arms out towards him. "Come back to bed."

He took a last drink of water and stole back to the warmth of her arms again, tucking his nose against her shoulder as he settled back down. "Will we walk tomorrow?" he murmured, pulling her close and sighing heavily.

She ran her fingers through his hair. "If you would like," she said, shifting slightly in his embrace. "I should bake tomorrow and prepare my herbs."

"No," he complained with a laugh. "No baking, no herbs. Spend the day with me." He nuzzled his nose against her neck.

"Peter," she said in an exasperated voice, pushing him away with her own laugh. "You are incorrigible. What shall I do with you?"

He propped himself up on his elbows and grinned, pushing his long hair out of his eyes. "What _shall_ you do with me?" he teased, poking her gently in the side. "I have always been fond of being incorrigible."

She gazed up at him with fond eyes and caught his hand, bringing it to her mouth and kissing his palm carefully. "There is a part of me that wishes we could stay here forever," she whispered, "that there was no world outside this tent, that it was only you and I."

Peter swallowed and watched her with careful eyes. "I wish that, too," he breathed, lifting his free hand to stroke her hair slowly. "When … I am not so afraid when I am with you, Regan."

Her answering smile was radiant, and she wound her arms around his neck and slid her fingers through his hair. "Then we will protect each other," she murmured. "You will protect me, and I will protect you."

"A perfect solution," he said with a small smile, brushing his fingers against her cheek. He curled his fingers around a few strands of hair and eyed her contemplatively. "Regan? Are you … I like you very much, Regan."

She blinked at him, and her expression suddenly became very shy. "I like you very much, too, Peter," she said, kneading the skin at the nape of his neck. "You are …" She paused and flushed. "I did not think it was possible to –"

"Feel this way about someone you have known for very little time," he finished easily, leaning forward to kiss the tip of her nose. "I know."

She lifted her eyes to his again and smiled, her cheeks dimpling. "Yes," she said quietly. "Yes, exactly."

He ran his finger down her nose, and then swallowed. "Regan," he said seriously, "may I kiss you?"

There was some akin to fear in her eyes, and then something else blossomed. Resolve? He was not quite sure until she was nodded. "Please?" came her whisper, and he carefully dipped his head to brush his mouth against hers tenderly.

It was not a long kiss, or one that particularly promoted fireworks in his head. Instead, a low fire sprouted in his belly, and he was content to lie back in her arms and sigh happily. "Wonderful woman," he murmured, echoing the words she often whispered to him.

Beside him, Regan shifted, and her hand beneath his chin forced him to look up again. "Kiss me again," she said, pulling his mouth back to hers. He laughed quietly and cupped her face in his hands, kissing her until air became necessary. She grinned up at him, eyes and face brighter than they had been several minutes ago.

"It is so different," she marveled, running her fingers over his mouth and jaw. "It is so different from those horrible kisses I have had before." She shuddered briefly at memories, and then tucked herself into Peter's warm embrace. "They are very lovely, these kisses."

He stroked her hair. "Kisses are supposed to be lovely," he murmured, brushing one against her temple. "Kisses are supposed to be good."

Her brow furrowed slightly, and she drew her bottom lip between her teeth anxiously. "And I suppose you are going to tell me next that having relations is lovely, too," she said in a doubtful voice.

"They are when both parties are willing," he said gently, brushing his thumb against her cheekbone. "Your only experiences have been with men who wish to receive their own pleasure." He drew her into his arms and tucked her head under his chin. "It is very pleasurable for both people when one is not forced, Regan."

She sniffed quietly and fingered his collarbone. "Have you been with many women, Peter?" she asked quietly.

"Yes." He shifted quietly in the sheets. "I have."

He felt her stiffen slightly. "Did you love them all?"

"No."

She pulled away with guarded eyes. "Then why did you do it?"

Peter sighed and turned his head towards the fire, staring into the flames as he tried to find the right words for his answer. "There is a loneliness in my soul that nothing, not even Aslan, can ever completely banish," he whispered. "And perhaps it is my own foolishness, but a woman in my bed helped to stifle the longing that I have felt."

A long silence stretched between them, and Peter was sure things were forever ruined between them. Then she slid her frail arms around his middle and pressed her face against his shoulder. "I know enough of loneliness to know the pain you feel," she whispered.

He found her hand, pressed against his ribs, and squeezed it tenderly. "With you, I do not feel so alone," he admitted, lifting a hand to brush her hair back from her face. "With you … the ache goes away."

They fell to kissing again, his arms sliding around her slim waist as she gripped his bare shoulders. "Regan," he whispered, allowing himself to finally – finally – be lost in her taste and touch and scent and warmth. Her cool, small hands against his back made him shiver, and she laughed against his mouth as she pulled him to her again.

Several minutes passed in the same delectable fashion, until Regan pulled back and caught his face between her hands. "Peter," she said seriously, "will you make love to me?"

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Why?" he asked quietly. "Regan, I do not want to hurt –"

"You will not," she said confidently, tugging on his shoulders. "My mother told me that when I found a man that was brave and kind and gentle, I should not be afraid. And you are all of these things, Peter." She stretched her neck up and kissed him. "Make me forget."

The night passed in a wonderful, dizzy haze for them as they explored the new feelings blossoming between them. Her breath was hot against his ear, her hands cold against his back, her skin soft and silky against his. He remembered her gasp of surprise, then of pleasure, and then the deep rumble of contentment that resounded from her chest. It was the first time – ever, he knew – that he went to sleep in a woman's arms without regrets.

The next few days passed in the same manner – they rarely ventured outside their tent. Instead, they were more than happy to spend their days tangled up together by the fire, exchanging kisses and whispered endearments in the safety of their little tent. If this was the way he would spend his last days, then Peter would cherish every moment of them. They were Aslan's gift.

"Do you suppose that they searched for us?" Regan murmured quietly one afternoon, sprawled out naked in their cocoon of blankets as Peter scrubbed at the dirt on his face. "Or do you think they assumed us dead straight away?"

"My brother would have searched for me," Peter said confidently. "And if your family loves you half as much as my brother loves me, they would have done the same." He wiped his face dry on a scrap of cloth and prowled back over to her, pressing a kiss to the hollow of her throat. "I would have searched for you." She gave him a bittersweet smile and pulled the blankets back over him.

Later that night, she shifted in his arms and drew a lazy pattern against his collarbone. "I must go out and do my medicine rounds tomorrow," she murmured, kissing his neck slowly. "I have neglected these people for far too long."

"Let me go with you," he murmured, nuzzling her cheek. "I want to know these people, Regan."

"Why?" she asked, pulling back with angry eyes. "They have done nothing but hurt us."

"I want to know them for the same reason you give them your medicines," he said, tracing her cheekbone carefully. "They are people, just like us. And perhaps their leader is a little misguided, but perhaps we can help them. Perhaps –" He shook his head and smiled. "I will go with you."

The next morning they set off, Peter's movements still stiff and measured, but he was more than able to keep up with her. He carried her basket of herbs as she ducked into tent after tent, all smiles and warm words whispered in the Tribe's language. They looked at him quizzically but mostly ignored him, eager for Regan's medicines and healing hands.

"She likes your hair," Regan said in amusement as a young girl jabbered on a pointed to him.

Peter laughed and came closer, setting down the basket and crouching next to the bed of the ill child. "She can touch it if she wants." Regan translated, and the little girl eager ran her hands through his golden hair with loud giggles. It distracted her enough that she took her medicine without complaint, and Peter was glad to be able to help.

"What did they do before you came?" he asked as they walked down the middle of the camp. He shifted his arm and grimaced at the pain that flared up in his shoulder.

She smiled bitterly and took the basket from him, despite his protests. "Most of them died," she said quietly. "These people are severely uneducated when it comes to illness and medicines. I have tried to teach the women as much as I can, but something like this takes years to memorize and know." She shook her head in frustration. "If I could teach them, they would let me go home."

"So it is not the people that are bad," he murmured, letting his fingers wrap around her elbow to pull her closer. "It is only their leadership that is corrupt." He watched two boys grapple in the dirt and looked away, thinking of Edmund. "If I could only speak with them, I am sure we could help them –"

"Albion would not listen to you," Regan said waspishly, grasping her basket tighter. "He does not listen to anyone. Besides, what skills do you have in diplomacy? I find it difficult to believe that a man with a soul as gentle as yours could be a ruthless diplomat."

"Not all diplomats are ruthless," Peter said indignantly. "Both my brother and I are diplomats, and my sisters, when they want to be. We have solved many crises simply by talking to them. It is only when they will not listen that we pick up our swords and fight."

She observed him for a few minutes, and then pressed herself into his side. "And that is how it should be," she murmured, squeezing his hand. "I love you."

He smiled and kissed the top of her head. "And I love you." She smiled back, and they continued their path through the camp.


	7. I: VII

**A/N:** I'm so sorry about the delay! This chapter was a huge struggle to write because it originally flowed straight into the next, and I couldn't post this chapter until I had figured out what I was going to do next in case I needed to change something. And then I decided on this, and I scraped it about four times. I'm still not entirely happy about it, but you guys deserve something to read. :)

* * *

_Hope abides; therefore I abide. _  
_Countless frustrations have not cowed me._  
_I am still alive, vibrant with life._  
_The black cloud will disappear,_  
_The morning sun will appear once again_  
_In all its supernal glory._

Hope by Sri Chinmoy

* * *

"Lieumin."

Peter glanced up from his book to stare at the guard suddenly standing in the entrance of the tent. He sat up slowly and put his book aside. "She is not here," Peter said carefully, eyeing the Wild Man. "She is giving her medicines out."

The man jabbered on in the Tribe's language and made a few jerky movements. "Lieumin," he said again, face melting into a scowl.

"She is not here," Peter said again, louder. "She is giving –"

"What is going on?"

Regan appeared next to the man with a deep frown and jabbered back to him. The man reached forward and grasped her arm, causing her to drop her basket. In an instant, Peter scrambled out of bed and wrenched Regan from the man's grasp.

"Peter," Regan said in a warning voice. "Stop it." She turned and spoke to the man again, who scowled deeper and pointed out of the tent.

She swallowed and pressed herself close to Peter. "Albion wants to see us," she murmured.

"What about?" he asked quietly, eyeing the man carefully.

"He will not say," she said, ducking out of the safety of his arms to gather up her fallen basket. She tucked it away in the corner and rewound the warm cloth around her neck before reaching for Peter's warm clothes. "Put these on. It is very cold today."

He slipped into them and tugged on the warm, soft leather shoes before winding a similar cloth around his own neck. Then he nodded to the man, who led them through the camp without a word.

"Do you think he will kill us?" Peter murmured, tucking her under his arm as they walked.

Regan's muffled gasp told him he had said the wrong thing. "Do not say things like that," she hissed at him, giving him a painful jab in the side with her finger. "Everything … everything will be just fine. Have faith."

"My faith has been running low as of late," he muttered, and fell silent for the rest of their walk.

The man directed them into Albion's tent, and several things happened so fast that he was not quite sure who had done them. Someone forced him to his knees on the cold ground, Regan screamed, and there was a cold blade against his throat. He froze and glanced up at the man who held him, and then over at Regan, who stood trapped in another man's arms and was squirming in fright.

Someone spoke with a small laugh, and the knife was hesitantly dropped from Peter's throat. He glanced up at Albion, who sat at the end of a long table full of food. Albion caught his eye and smiled, gesturing. "Come, Narnians. Come and join me at my table."

Peter stood, and Regan was immediately at his side, burying her face into his shoulder. He murmured a few gentle words, and then cautiously led them closer. Albion raised an eyebrow. "Eat," he said, pointing at the two places next to him.

It was probably poisoned, Peter decided as he helped Regan sit before lowering himself into a chair. Regan's fingers twitched – he knew she was hungry – but he caught her hand under the table and gave a tiny shake of his head.

Albion noticed. "It is perfectly safe," he said in amusement. "I have not poisoned it. If I wanted you dead, I would have allowed my guards to kill you when you came in."

That did the trick for both of them, and they reached for food without another word. They were careful to only take from the dishes that Albion himself took from and drink from the safe jug of wine.

"I was hoping you could help me with a puzzle," Albion said after a few minutes of silence, leaning back in his chair to observe Peter. "It confuses me, and I believe you are well able to shed light on the situation."

Peter swallowed his mouthful of warm, soft bread. "Perhaps," he said quietly. "It depends on the situation."

Albion stood and crossed the tent to the far end as he chewed on a piece of fruit, dragging his finger across the map of Narnia and the Western Wilds. "I have heard a nasty rumor that, as we speak, the monarchy of Narnia marches with an army across their great country to rescue the High King from the clutches of the Wild Men of the West." He laughed and turned to gaze at Peter, eyes dark. "But this cannot be true. You told me you did not know where the High King was. Yet they believe him to be in our camp. Why?"

Peter's breath had caught in his throat, and he stared at Albion with a slack jaw. Regan's hand touched his thigh beneath the table, and he straightened up at once. "I do not pretend to know the king's mind," he said carefully. "I have not been with any Narnian other than Regan for the last three months."

"I have a theory," Albion said, smiling brightly. "Perhaps you have lied to me, and you know exactly where the High King is, and you have been trying to protect him." Albion snatched up another piece of fruit, and Peter watched in disgusted fascination as the juice dribbled down into the man's dark, tangled beard. "Or perhaps … no. Not even you would attempt to conceal that from me."

"I do not follow you."

"It is preposterous to think you are the High King," Albion laughed, and Peter gripped Regan's hand tighter. "A young boy like you? The stories of the High King make him much older, much wiser, and much stronger."

"I assure you that there are many false statements said about the High King," Peter said in as calm of a voice as he could muster. "He is still very young, and very foolish, and has his moments of weakness."

Albion's eyes narrowed. "You know him intimately." Peter bobbed his head once, and Albion came to seize the front of his shirt. "Tell me what you know of him. Now."

"No."

Albion sneered and threw him back onto the bench. A gesture later, and Regan was being snatched away from him and into the arms of a strong looking brute. She gave a shriek of fright and panic, flailing her arms wildly as she struggled to get away from the man. "Peter!" she cried, doubling over in an attempt to reach him.

"No!" Peter cried, fingers brushing against hers for a moment. But she was already out of his grasp. He whirled around and stood. "Please. Please let her go. Please do not hurt her."

"Tell me where the High King is," Albion hissed as the guard dragged Regan, weeping openly, into a different portion of the tent. Peter glanced at the quivering tent flap in horror, flinching violently when he heard a sharp slap resound through the room, followed by another scream. "Tell me!"

"I will tell you if you let her go!" Peter said desperately, tears rising angrily in his own eyes. "Please. Please, I am begging you. Let her go. As soon as she is safe, I will tell you where he is."

Albion gestured again. Something heavy struck him in the side of the head and sent him sprawling onto the floor. "Have your way with them both," came Albion's cold voice from above, and despair settled in his stomach again.

The metallic, bitter taste of blood lingered on his tongue, and he swallowed to try and rid himself of it. When it did not work, he gave a small whimper at the pain radiating from everywhere. "I know," came Regan's trembling voice, and her hands settled against his flaming chest. "I know it hurts. Just … everything will be alright."

Her tone frightened him, and he lifted his head to gaze around blearily. Regan's face swam into view, her brow furrowed in worry and fear. "Regan," he said thickly, one of his eyes swollen shut and his nose still bleeding. "Sorry. So sorry –"

"Shh," she said gently, pressing a chaste kiss against his hair. "Be quiet. You need to rest, Peter. There were very unkind to you."

"And to you –"

"Hush," she said more firmly, tucking the blankets around him. He could feel the bandages stretched out around his torso, around his arms, around one of his thighs. He ached everywhere. "You need rest. You cannot be wasting your energy worrying about me."

He watched her as she stood and went to stoke the fire. He saw her wince with every step she took; heard the quickened breathing; noticed the wildly colored bruise that covered nearly half her face; saw the blood stains on her dress. When her back was turned, he gingerly lifted himself out of bed and crossed silently to her, pressing his hands gently onto her shoulders and kissing the back of her head.

"Come back to bed," he murmured, feeling his legs shaking. "You need just as much rest as I do. We will heal together, Regan. We will take care of each other."

She was still for a long moment. Then she nodded, her hands coming up to press against her mouth as she trembled violently. He turned her around and gathered her to his chest. No matter how much it hurt to have her fingers curl against his skin, having her in his arms was a balm to his weary mind. He sighed into her hair and carefully led her back to bed, settling the blankets around them and making himself as comfortable as possible.

She fell asleep quickly, the tremors in her body disappearing as she relaxed heavily against him. He lay awake for hours still, racing as he fought to ignore the pain in his body. Sleep finally claimed him when the sky lightened up, and he tucked his head against her hair.

* * *

They received several visits over the course of the next five days, although Albion never came. His guards came in pairs – one to give Peter a good smack and the other to toy with Regan's already fragile state of mind. She grew quieter than he had ever seen, retreating into herself as she went about her daily work. She refused to leave the tent, even when Peter reminded her of the sick people in the tribe. Instead, she huddled near the fire facing the opening of the tent, eyes darting up to the flap at any sound as she did her weaving and dried her herbs.

The lashes on his back scabbed quickly, as they were shallow and few, but his body ached with a feeling he could not explain. He tossed and turned in bed at night, so much that Regan returned to her own bed at night so she could get some sleep. He felt cold and unsettled without her, and he grew quiet right along with her.

She refused to let him touch her, even if it was just a brush of fingers against her elbow.

The evening of the sixth day, Peter wandered restlessly around their tent, running his fingers over the fabric walls and over their rugged furniture. He felt like caged animal, and the walls were slowly getting smaller and smaller, and he was going to go mad if he had to stay another –

"Please stop."

Regan's voice whispered across the tent, and he turned his head slowly. "Stop what?" he asked quietly.

"Pacing," she breathed, her hands clenching into her skirt and turning her knuckles white. "Please stop. My head, it –"

Peter crossed to her and dropped to his knees next to her, taking her hands and breathing warm air on them. "You're freezing," he whispered, drawing her close to his chest. "Does your head hurt?"

"All of me hurts," she said in a teary voice, clinging to his neck. "I wish … I wish this was over, Peter. I want it all to be over."

"I know," he murmured, stroking her hair. "I know, Regan. It will be soon. It will be over soon. It will all be over soon."

She sniffed quietly. "I never got to say goodbye," she cried, pressing her nose against his shoulder. "I never got to say goodbye to my father, or my brother. Just like I never got to say goodbye to my mother." She sniffed. "I never got to say –"

"Be quiet," he ordered in a quiet, stern voice, squeezing his arms around her middle. "Regan, be quiet. If you say another thing like that, I will –"

"You will what?"

The voice behind them startled him; he whipped around and picked up the sharp baking stone Regan always used, holding it above his head. This voice was familiar to him, but he had become so accustomed to the rough, guttural speech of the Tribes that the smooth, clear tone that came from behind them frightened him. He quickly dropped the stone, however, in surprise.

"Edmund!"

King Edmund the Just grinned broadly and stepped through the slit in the tent, sheathing his knife and pushing his coif off his dark locks. "Brother," he said, dropping to his knees beside Peter and pulling Peter into a firm embrace. "We feared you lost forever."

Peter stared over his brother's shoulder at Regan, who looked ready to scamper as three more men stepped into the tent. He pushed himself out of Edmund's arms. "You should not have come," he said gravely. "How did you –"

"I shall explain it all when we return to camp," Edmund said, blinking away tears. "But we must away – they cannot know we were here, and –"

"I will not leave without Regan," Peter said, and Regan's eyes darted up to his. He gazed back at her seriously. "I could not leave without her, Edmund."

"We only have one horse –"

"We will ride together," he said firmly, rising unsteadily to his feet and offering his hands to her. She took them silently, eyes dark and pensive. "I am not as heavy as I used to be, Edmund. The horse will be able to keep up."

Edmund glanced between them, and then nodded. "Dress warmly," he said quietly, and then returned to the slit in the tent. "You will need all the warmth you can get."

Peter and Regan dutifully pulled on their layers of clothes and wrapped blankets around themselves like cloaks to ward against the chill before slipping out of the tent with Edmund. The world was dark beyond their tent, and Peter had to grope blindly in the dark for Edmund's shoulder before creeping after them.

Regan's hand constricted around his at every noise that sounded in the dark woods, and it was not until they reached the horses that he could feel her relax a little. He exchanged silent greetings with Orieus and the three other soldiers. He helped Regan up onto the horse, pushing aside the pain it caused to pull himself up afterwards – he would have time later to give in to the pain. Now he had to be strong. He wrapped his arms around Regan's slim waist and took hold of the reins.

"Here." Edmund's voice drifted into his ears, and he turned his head. Something warm and soft pressed against his hands – Edmund's gloves. "Your hands are freezing. I have an extra pair. Use these – they'll help you grip the reins better." Peter silently pulled them on and made sure to tuck Regan's hands deep inside the blanket wrapped around her.

Their escape was slow at first due to the icy slopes they had to climb up and down. Regan's form grew heavy against his chest as she slipped off into sleep from exhaustion, but still they pressed on. Soon they picked up speed, and they were galloping across the open countryside through the powdery snow. At last, thought Peter, catching sight of the light of fires ahead. I am home and safe.

They slipped into the camp quietly – they would alert everyone the next morning as to the return of the High King, after Peter had rested and he had told Regan his tale. Regan woke when he nudged her, startled and afraid until she recognized his face. Then she allowed herself to be helped down off the horse and folded into thick blankets with Peter at her side.

Both of them were settled onto a long, comfortable chaise and presented with steaming mugs of chocolate, which they both refused. Regan, face green, gave the reason. "We have had little but bread and broths ever since we have been in that camp," she murmured, curling her body against Peter's. "Our stomachs are very weak. Perhaps just some plain tea?" The faun nodded understandingly and disappeared to do just that.

Peter wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close, kissing the top of her head and yawning. "You should sleep," he murmured, letting his head loll back against the chaise. "You are very weak."

"Only if you sleep, too," she mumbled, slipping her hand into his shirt to rest against his bare chest. "You should –" a yawn – "sleep, too."

"No," he said, rubbing his eyes. "There is much I need to discuss with my brother, and –"

"Peter." He glanced over at her, finding her face set in sleepy amusement. "Shall I have to give you an incentive to sleep, so shall I give you one of my droughts?"

He pulled a face and grumbled. "Anything but that," he muttered, and then pulled himself up shakily. "Come. This chaise will not be nice to sleep on. I think there is a bed through here."

She followed him, lingering in the partition flap. "Will your brother mind that we use his tent and his bed?" she asked uneasily. "What will people say when they discover we share a bed?"

Peter sat on the side of the bed and motioned for her to come nearer. When she stopped in front of him, he wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed his face against her side, giving a content little sigh. "Then I shall tell them that I am in love with you, and that they should keep their noses out of my business." He kissed the top of her hip tenderly. "I shall tell them that I am in love with you and wish to marry you."

She grew still, and then pulled away to glance down at him, her fingers tightening into his shirt. "Do you mean that?" she asked in a very small voice, her cheeks stained pink.

"I do."

Her smile was rapturous, and she leaned down to kiss him warmly. "And I shall tell the whole world of the wonderful, brave, witty man that I love," she said, sinking down onto his good leg. He pressed his cheek against her shoulder for a moment, and then began the slow process of unwrapping her from all her layers.

She settled back comfortably in the sheets and pillows. "You never answered me," she said, twirling a lock of hair between her fingers as he stoked the coals in the corner. "Will your brother mind us using his bed?"

"Tis not my brother's bed," he said, sliding beneath the sheets and curling close to her. "Tis mine."

She raised her eyebrows. "But this is a tent fine enough for a king." Silence met her, and her brow furrowed. "But … Peter, you cannot possibly …" She gasped and sat up. "Oh, I have been deceived!"

"No!" he protested, sitting up and grasping her hands. "No, Regan, you must believe that I never meant to deceive you. You must understand that I could not tell you where Albion could hear or discover my secret – if he had known, a ransom would have been sent to Cair Paravel, and my brother and sisters would have stopped at nothing to get me back, including giving up Narnia itself."

He cradled her face in his hands. "But now I may be honest with you. I am High King of Narnia, and many other things that will most likely not impress you, but to you, I am merely Peter. I have been Peter, and I will always be merely Peter to you, Regan."

She gazed up at him with such intensity that he thought she was seriously considering getting out of bed and leaving. But she only sight and fell back into the sheets, pulling him with her and resting her head on his shoulder.

"You shall always be my Peter," she finally whispered, patting his chest carefully. He felt her smile. "I suppose I must forgive you, dearest."

"Yes, you must," he agreed in amusement, but dropped a tender kiss to her hair in relief. "But you must sleep first. We shall discuss the rest of this in the morning."


	8. I: VIII

**A/N:** Here is the next installment - it's a sweeter, more romantic chapter than I usually write, and longer, with not a lot of action. But I think it's important to have a mushy chapter every once in awhile. Regan and Peter are in the "honeymoon" phase of their relationship, but they won't stay that way long. Thank you so much for reading - constructive criticism is always welcome! :)

_To clasp you now and feel your head close-pressed, _  
_Scented and warm against my beating breast;_  
_ To whisper soft and quivering your name, _  
_And drink the passion burning in your frame;_

_ To lie at full length, taut, with cheek to cheek, _  
_And tease your mouth with kisses till you speak_  
_ Love words, mad words, dream words, sweet senseless words, _  
_Melodious like notes of mating birds; _

_To hear you ask if I shall love always, _  
_And myself answer: Till the end of days; _  
_To feel your easeful sigh of happiness _  
_When on your trembling lips I murmur: Yes; _

_It is so sweet. We know it is not true. _  
_What matters it? The night must shed her dew._  
_ We know it is not true, but it is sweet - _  
_The poem with this music is complete._

Romance by Claude McKay

* * *

"Peter! Get up! The Tribes – the Tribes are here!"

Peter jolted up in bed, startled at the sound of Edmund's cry, and immediately regretted the action. He hissed in pain, and Regan stirred next to him. "Peter?" she mumbled sleepily, rubbing her eyes. "What –"

Edmund pushed aside the tent flap and seemed surprised to find Regan in the bed next to Peter. He quickly redirected his attention to Peter, however, and brandished his naked sword to the entrance.

"The Tribes descend upon us," he said anxiously. "We need you."

The pain that had started as a dull ache had quickly grown to searing heat throughout his entire body, and he gritted his teeth as Regan sat up to gaze at him. "I am in no condition for battle, Edmund," he said, voice strained and tight. "I cannot even –"

"The troops will rally if they see the High King at their head," Edmund argued, his eyes dark. "I am not a natural leader like you, Peter. It is not so easy for me as it is for you."

Peter's eyes darted up to Edmund's face, and he could feel his jaw tense. "It has never been easy for me," he said in a colder voice than he intended. "It has never been easy to bear the burdens Aslan has given me, Edmund, but I have done them willingly, for He asked them of me." He raised his hand to use Regan's shoulder to push himself up, but found himself, minutes later, with Regan and Edmund peering down at him in worry.

"You lost consciousness," Edmund said, and immediately wrung his hands together. "Forgive me. I forgot, so easily, that you have been through the worst in the past three months. I was so eager to relinquish this role that I would put your health in danger –"

"There is nothing to forgive," Peter grunted, reaching his hand out to touch Edmund's shoulder. The simple action was most likely what had caused him to black out, for it spurred such pain in his shoulder that he gave a cry and felt tears in his eyes.

"Shh," Regan said, immediately reaching out to return his arm to his side. With tender fingers, she carefully prodded her way around his shoulder. He moaned and tried pulling away from her, but she merely sat on his legs.

"You have dislocated your shoulder again," she tsked. "What were you doing? It must have been loose from last week for it to come out so easily."

"Just push it back in," he muttered, stretching the fingers out in anticipation.

"Help me," she said to Edmund, helping Peter sit up. "It will be easier with two of us now. Hold him round the middle – keep him from moving." Edmund did so, and Peter was suddenly glad he was there. Now he had an excuse to keep everything bottled up – it would not do for his brother to see him weak.

It hurt far worse than any of the other times, and he nearly bit through his lip in an effort to keep himself silent. His body betrayed him – it shuddered and shook as tears slid down his cheeks, and he sagged against Edmund. Regan's mouth murmured against his hair and pressed him back down into bed, where he whimpered several times until something cold was settled against his shoulder.

"I will get you some broth," she said, smoothing the blankets over his chest, "and put some herbs in it to ease the pain." She stood – with some difficulty, he noticed – and disappeared out of the tent.

Edmund sat on the edge of Peter's bed with sad, worried eyes. "Forgive me," he said again. "I … I should have known better than to ask this of you, Peter." He clasped Peter's good shoulder. "You shall stay here. I shall leave ten guards to stay with you and the lady. You will be quite safe."

"Regan," Peter murmured, swallowing back another moan of pain. "Her name is Regan."

"Regan." Edmund nodded. "Tis a good name." He was silent for nearly a minute, and then sighed. "Do you intend to keep her as your mistress, Peter?"

Peter nearly jerked up again, but settled for blinking in horror up at Edmund. "Of course not!" he said a little angrily. "I fully intend to marry her as soon as we are both recovered from this ordeal."

Edmund blinked in shock. "Marry her?" he said loudly. "Peter, you hardly know her!"

"I know everything I need to know about her," Peter said calmly, staring at the tend ceiling. "I know that she is kind and compassionate and loves deeply. I know that she is impatient when she is tired and that she puts others needs in front of her own so she can get cranky." He smiled. "And she is very beautiful, I think. The most beautiful woman I have ever beheld."

"How kind of you to say," came Regan's warm voice from the tent flap. She crossed back over with a bowl of steaming broth. "I consider you to be the most handsome man of my acquaintance, as well."

Peter found the strength to laugh as she and Edmund helped him sit up. "A proper introduction is in order," he said. "Edmund, this is Regan, the very kind lady who saved me from a terrible fate. Regan, this is my brother, Edmund, who is my dearest friend and confidant."

"Peter has told me all about you," Regan said, setting the bowl aside for a moment to clasp Edmund's hand. "He has nothing but the best to say about you."

Edmund gave Peter a grateful look. "He had the liberty to tell you much worse," he said, "for Aslan knows I deserve it. It is good to know that my brother has been in good hands in the Tribe's camp."

He stood and reached for his helm. "I must go to the front of the line," he said seriously. "Lucy and Susan know that you are safe – Susan will come if she is not needed with the archers, but we will all return when we have driven them out."

Peter found his body moving without warning, despite Regan's protests. He climbed from the bed painfully and pulled Edmund's head down so he could kiss his brother's dark hair. "Aslan be with you," he murmured, just as he had done many times before. "When he shakes his mane –"

"We will have spring again," Edmund whispered in response, eyes on the ground. Then he straightened, slid his helm over the crown of his head, and disappeared out of the tent.

Regan's arms came around him from behind a few moments later. "You are very close to your brother," she said, pressing her cheek against his naked back.

He nodded silently, and then turned in her arms to press a kiss against her own vibrant hair. "He is my best friend," he breathed. "There was a time where we fought horribly and did not love each other as brothers should – we have no desire to ever return to that, so we cherish each other." He shook his head, nose brushing against her temple. "But enough of that. I smell soup."

She smiled and let him climb back into bed before sinking down next to him. She held the bowl while he ate with his good hand. "I will wrap your shoulder when you have finished eating, and there is an herb in your soup to help ease the pain you feel," she said, reaching up to stroke his hair.

He glanced up at her between bites. "And the pain that you feel?"

Her face went blank. "I do not understand your meaning," she said stiffly, looking away from him.

"You move as though you were in pain, Regan, and I –"

"Tis nothing," she said, squeezing his hand. "I am only cold and stiff from riding last night. I shall be fine in a few days."

He frowned. "Why did you not tell me you were cold?" he demanded, dropping his spoon into the bowl and throwing a blanket around her shoulders. "Come here. We will keep each other warm."

She sank against him gratefully, his soup abandoned, and buried her cold nose into the crook of his neck. Another blanket was added, and then a third, and then a fourth, until they were finally warm and comfortable. She made a noise of annoyance. "I was going to wrap your shoulder."

"It does not hurt," he said, rubbing his hand against her hair. "Leave it be for now and rest. You need it just as much, if not more, then I."

They lay together quietly for some time, listening to the creaking of armor outside from their guards and the wind making the trees tremble. Peter dozed, listening to Regan's quiet breathing, and only lifted his head when she shifted in his arms. "Hmm?" he murmured against her hair, sighing deeply.

She shook her head and sighed in return. "I feel as though my heart is finally at peace here," she whispered, brushing her fingers across his breastbone. "I am not wracked with fear anymore."

"You shall never have to fear as long as I am with you," he said tenderly. "While I will never say that what happened to us in that camp was good, a good thing has come out of it." He nudged his nose against her cheek. "The ache that has been with me for so long is gone. You have made it disappear."

She hummed quietly and drew in a long, deep breath of delight. A thought seemed to occur to her, and she glanced up at him sharply. "And what will you do if your sisters do not find me suitable for you?" she asked anxiously. "Already I see that your brother has his doubts."

"It is my decision to make," Peter said firmly, twining a hand into her hair, "and mine alone. If you are your normal, beautiful, witty self, they can have no qualms with you."

"Except that I prefer to spend my days with sleeves rolled up tending to sick people."

His mouth quirked up. "If that is how my wife wishes to spend her days, then that is what shall happen," he said, his chest warming at the implications of his words. "You shall become the court's finest healer, I daresay."

She blinked up at him. "I would be your queen," she said after a long pause, and he sensed the hesitation in her voice. "Such activities are not suitable for a queen. I would have many other responsibilities to attend to"

"You would be a queen consort, Regan, not a queen regnant," he said quietly. "Although you will have certain things you need to do, you would not have the responsibilities that Lucy and Susan have. You would be free to spend your days however you pleased – if you would like to organize the court healers, then you are free to do so."

"And if I wished to join you at your war council?" she asked impishly, eyes twinkling merrily up at him.

He laughed and bent his head to kiss her. "Yes, you could," he said, "but you would most likely find it dull and boring. Our councils are often long and tiresome."

"But I could if I wanted," she said, pressing him down onto his back so she could kiss him easier, "because you love me."

He smiled and pulled her closer. "Yes," he admitted. "Because I love you, I would allow you to do whatever you wish with your time."

"Oh, you would allow me?" she said, arching her eyebrow at him. "I am no pet, Peter."

"Forgive me," he said, stifling a laugh as he reached around the back of her dress and began to undo her laces. "I misspoke. Perhaps I should have said, because I love you, that I would not wish to put any restrictions on you as a husband or as a king. There, does that satisfy you?"

"Yes," she said, grinning happily down at him. "It satisfies me perfectly." She returned her mouth to his, allowing herself to be lost to the lover's haze again.

It was nearly dark when Regan's shifting woke him, and he lifted his head to peer around the dim room. She stood in the corner, dressed in her warm clothes from the day before and running her fingers through her hair in the candlelight. He watched her for several minutes, content to see her partake in such a mundane activity.

She turned and froze when she found his eyes upon her, and he was surprised to see a dark blush cross her face. "Stop staring," she scolded, turning back around to continue the frantic finger combing of her tangled hair.

He laughed and sat up, the pain slowly receding from his shoulder. "Why?" he asked, pulling himself up from bed to dress. "It is not a crime to stare at a beautiful woman, Regan."

She glanced at him over her shoulder, eyes bright. "You flatter me," she teased. "Whatever shall I do with you?"

"Love me until I am old and gray," he volunteered cheerfully, sitting on the side of the bed to pull on his worn moccasins from the Tribes. "And I shall be obliged to return the favor, my dear."

She leaned over and kissed his forehead before wrapping her shawl around her shoulders. "I believe they have dinner waiting for us," she said, pointing to the tent flap. "Someone came in earlier to let us know."

He followed her through the flap, and they settled down on the chaise to eat the hot soup laid out for them. They quickly moved, however, to wrap themselves in blankets and stretched out on the floor, as had become their habit when taking their meals together.

"Tell me more of the Cair," Regan said, pushing her empty bowl away and rolling onto her back with a contented sigh. "I have heard it is very beautiful, but have never had the good fortune to see it myself.

So he regaled her with tales of the tall, strong walls and the sweeping archways, of the long marble halls and the way the sun came through the windows in the morning and evening, of the different inhabitants, of the view from his the balcony off his apartments. "And, of course," he said, a shy smiling coming onto his face, "my favorite place I shall have to wait and show you when we arrive at the Cair."

A horn sounded somewhere in the distance, and he lifted his head to stare at the tent flap. "That is the victory horn," he said quietly, pushing himself up carefully and grasping his shoulder when it gave a twinge. "My brother and sisters should be along shortly. Would you wrap my shoulder before they come?"

She helped him remove his shirt and set about smearing a few salves over his skin before wrapping it tightly. "You should not move it for a few days," she said, securing his arm against his side. "It will heal faster if you keep it still."

"But then I cannot use my hand," he pointed out, wiggling his fingers.

"What do you need to use your hand for?" she asked in amusement, curling her own fingers through his hair as she kissed his temple. "You are going to be spending much of the next few days in bed, and there –"

"If I am going to be spending the next few days in bed, then you are going to spend them in bed, as well," Peter said pointedly. "You were there for much longer than I was, and –"

"I was not abused the way you were, Peter, it is –"

"It is not different," Peter said in a hard voice. "I have been trained to survive these conditions and to survive pain, Regan. You have not, and you are a woman. Your constitution –"

"Are you calling me weak because I am a woman?" Regan said sharply, her eyes suddenly narrow. "I would think very carefully about what you say next, Your Highness."

Peter gaped at her, and then pulled himself to his feet. "I am not calling you weak!" he said, anger tainting his words. "I am merely saying that you are bound to be weaker than I am because you were there longer than I was and are unused to such physical pain."

She blinked, and then colored. "Oh," she muttered, dropping her eyes from his. "Forgive me."

He sighed and dropped back down next to her, reaching out to nudge her chin up with his knuckle. "We still have much to learn about each other," he murmured. "In a way, we are strangers still."

"Yes," she said, her fingers fiddling with a stray piece of bandage. She glanced up at him, her brow creased in worry and fear. "Are you going to –"

"No," he said firmly, leaning forward to kiss her. "I know everything I need to know about you, Regan. To know that we may misunderstand each other is no reason to make me not want to marry you."

She looked relieved, and then shifted to slide her arms around his neck and press her face against his shoulder. He wrapped his good arm around her and kissed her ear. "I cannot lose you," she whispered, and he felt moisture on his skin. "My heart could not take it, Peter."

He swallowed and pulled away, and glanced up when the tent flap opened. Edmund stepped through, with bloodstained armor and bright eyes. Regan's head jerked up, and she was gone from his arms. He watched her skirts disappear into the back portion of the tent, and then pulled himself up unsteadily to grasp Edmund's hand.

"They have been driven back," Edmund said, answering Peter's unspoken question. His eyes went to the back portion of the tent. "Is everything alright?"

"We were simply discussing our future," Peter said quietly, and peered past Edmund. "Are Susan and Lucy … ?"

"I said I would come and see if you were well enough for visitors first," Edmund said. "I thought you must be asleep – you looked so tired when I left you this morning."

"We slept most of the afternoon," Peter assured him. "I want to see them. I need to see them." He paused. "Give me a moment to speak with Regan. Bring them in here – I will be out in a few moments." Edmund nodded, and Peter ducked back deeper into the tent.

She glanced up when she came in, her face pink from scrubbing away tears. "I … I am sorry," she said. "I just –"

"Do not worry," he said, coming to kiss her hair. "It is alright to not want someone to see you cry. I would rather be seen as a fool before I let my sisters see me cry."

She laughed shakily and pressed her face into her hands. "I just …" She sighed and glanced up again. "I am not as peaceful as I thought I was earlier. My fear of losing you … it is no longer a fear of your death, but a fear that you will be so –"

"The fear that I will be too busy for you," Peter finished, and kissed her temple. "I will not pretend that I will not be busy when we return to the Cair, or even when I am well enough to begin riding again. I will have many responsibilities, and much that I need to catch up on. But I will never forget you. At least an hour every night will be all yours, Regan, even on my busiest days."

"Then it will be a long time before we are able to be married," she pointed out seriously.

He shook his head. "I intend for us to marry as soon as possible," he said, standing up again and offering her his free hand. "As soon as we reach the Cair, if that is agreeable to you." He laughed. "Of course, we would have to give the dressmakers time to design your entire wardrobe and your beautiful wedding gown."

"I would marry you in what I have now," she said earnestly, standing to kiss him tenderly. "As long as I could call you my husband." She colored and grinned up at him. "You are as good as, you know."

He grinned back at her and kissed her again. "Of that I am very well aware," he murmured against her mouth.

"If I had known that you were only going to come back here to kiss each other, I would have told you to leave her be, Peter."

They sprang apart at Edmund's quiet voice, faces red. Edmund looked amused and stepped into the dim partition. "Susan and Lucy are eager to see you," he said in a louder voice. "Come and see them." He threw a robe at Peter and disappeared again.

Regan, laughing silently the whole time, managed to wrap the robe around him, with one sleeve hanging limply due to the arm bound against his side. "Your sisters are going to wonder if you've lost an arm," she said in amusement, splashing her face with water before taking his hand again. "Perhaps you should start with that." He grinned and ducked out from their bedroom partition, only to be accosted by both Susan and Lucy – both were crying noisily as they clung to him.

Peter gritted his teeth to stop the hiss that rose to his mouth from Susan pressing on his arm but allowed them to stay close. Lucy had grown another two inches – her bright hair now pressed firmly into his nose to afford him the smell of his youngest sister. Susan was just as beautiful as ever, even with a scratch across her face and her hair a little tangled from the battle. Both of them were a welcome addition to his arms, and he spent several minutes murmuring and kissing their hair.

"Oh, we thought you were dead," Susan finally blubbered out, wiping her eyes and nose on her sleeve (which he normally would have laughed at, but did not find appropriate at the moment). "When Edmund came back with your sword and your helm, w-w-we th-th-thought –" She broke off and dissolved into tears again, throwing her arms around his neck.

This time he did hiss, and Susan jerked back. "Tis only my arm," he said quickly, reaching out to stroke her hair. "I will be perfectly well in a few days."

Lucy snuggled into his side happily and kissed his cheek several times. "It is not Narnia without you, Peter," she said calmly, although her eyes shone bright and tears still slid down her face.

He laughed and kissed her cheek back. "I highly doubt that my absence really changed all that much, Lucy." He kissed her again. "You give me far too much credit."

"Tis true!" Lucy insisted, smacking his good arm playfully. "The corridors were silent without you laughing every morning, and no one could get Snowfire to calm down in the afternoons, and no one could really figure out who was in charge at first –"

Lucy continued to tell him all the things that had gone wrong at the Cair over the past several months, and he felt a heavy weight settle into his chest at her words. He had abandoned his family without any clear sign of what was to happen to them. By staying to defend Narnia, he had abandoned it and his siblings. He could not decide whether it had been brave or foolish to stay.

"Peter? Peter? Peter?"

Someone shook him, and he jerked his head to the side. "What?" he said loudly.

Regan was gazing at him with concerned eyes. "I have been saying your name for nearly a minute," she murmured, and pressed her hand to his head. "You are pale."

"Am I?" he asked faintly, and sank down on the chaise behind him.

Lucy peered down at him curiously, and then pulled her cordial out. "Would you like some? You do look awfully pale, Peter," she said, sitting next to him.

He shook his head quickly. "Tis for emergencies only, Lucy," he said, pushing the cordial away. "I am in no danger of death." Regan's eyes narrowed slightly, but she did not comment as she pressed a cup of tea into his hands.

Susan's eyes followed Regan as , and Peter understood. "Lucy, Susan, this is Regan," he said, and then began to laugh. "Do you know? I do not even know another name for you besides Regan."

She blinked at him for a moment, and then smiled. "Regan of Caullenwall," she said, twisting her hair over one shoulder. "My father is a member of King Lune's court, but sent my brother and I to live with our uncle in the Shuddering Woods five years ago."

"We must invite them both to the Cair when we return," he murmured, taking a long sip of his tea before glancing back at Susan. "Regan of Caullenwall, meet my sisters, Susan and Lucy. Susan, Lucy, Regan has been with me in the Tribe's camp these past months. She is a very skilled healer, and is responsible for my good health today."

"Good health?" Regan gave a rather unladylike snort. "You have no health at the moment. You put on a very clever act, Peter, but you do not fool me."

He sniffed in distain. "Pardon me for not wishing to see a bed again for the next ten years," he said, taking another drink of his hot tea. "I have practically spent the past three months in bed. I am very unwilling to go back to one."

"You were not so unwilling this afternoon," he heard Regan mutter, loud enough for only him, and he promptly spat his tea with a loud laugh that confused all three of his siblings.

Lucy, however, looked past it quickly and came to sit by Regan. "We are forever in your debt, Lady Regan," she said warmly. "I must thank you for being so kind to my brother. We were so afraid for him."

"Peter inspires that short of help in people," Regan said with a laugh. "I remember he looked so pitiful when I first saw him that I could not do anything but help him." Peter smiled gratefully at her over the top of his cup, thankful that she was downplaying the extent of his injuries.

Susan sat on the wooden chair across from them and eyed Regan critically. "You are not telling us something, Peter," she said. "Out with it."

Peter eyed her just as critically. "You have grown more observant, Susan," he said quietly, putting his tea down and reaching for Regan's hand. "Regan has agreed to be my wife, Susan. We would like to be married as soon as possible."

Silence met his statement. Regan stiffened next to Peter, as if preparing herself for rejection. When Susan and Lucy continued to be silent, she stood and poured herself another cup of tea, avoiding Peter's eyes carefully.

"Say something," Peter finally demanded, putting his cup down. "I have just told you that I am getting married, and you have nothing to say?"

"Tis only very sudden," Lucy finally said reluctantly, her eyes lingering on Regan's back. "We … we hardly know Regan, and you have only just returned to us –"

"You should discuss this privately," Regan said suddenly, voice firm. "I will go for a walk." She crossed to Peter and, despite his protests, kissed his forehead and disappeared from the tent. The flap quivered from the force of her exit.

Peter turned back to Susan and Lucy with a scowl. "Your rejection has been her greatest fear," he said angrily, "and now you have brought it to fruition!"

"I have not spoken a single word to her, and now you tell me that she is to be my sister!" Susan said, glaring back at him. "You cannot spring this on us, Peter. We do not know her – you have only just learned where her family comes from! She has obviously bewitched you –"

"But what, her beautiful clothes and sly words?" Peter asked coldly. "We have been living in a tent together for three months, Susan. We have had much time to get to know one another, but there were certain things that could not be said for fear of being overheard –"

"And I am sure she was ecstatic to find out that it was the High King in her tent," Susan said, arching an eyebrow at him. "Surely it gave her enough motivation to –"

"Regan did not know that I was a king until last night, after I asked her to be my wife," Peter said, rubbing his eyes wearily. "She knew of my living and working at the Cair, she knew that I had a brother and two sisters, and she knew my name was Peter. That is all she knew about my personal life." He glanced up. "You are right – there are many things we do not know about each other, but they are trivial details compared to what I do know about her. She is everything I could want in a wife, and everything that you could want in a sister."

Edmund shifted in his seat. "She cares deeply about him," he murmured, voice low and hoarse from battle. "The way she looks at him, Susan … I would want nothing less for our brother. He deserves a woman like Regan. Promise me that you will get to know her."

Lucy nodded happily. "Of course we will," she said, coming to sit next to Peter and grasping his unbound hand. "You look happy when you look at her. If she is the cause of that happiness, then I will accept her as my sister."

Susan took more coaxing, and Peter could understand her reluctance – years of him chasing off her suitors had left her just as protective of him as he was of her. She finally sighed and came to embrace him, kissing his golden hair several times. "I do not wish to see you hurt, Peter," she whispered.

"Regan will not hurt me," he assured her. "I love her, and she loves me. And you will love her, as well." He smiled. "She is very fond of archery, you know."

Susan's face brightened considerably at his words. "We shall go shooting together soon," she promised, kissing him again. "Forgive me for my harsh words. I only wish to protect you."

"I know," Peter said, folding his arm around her and kissing her dark hair. "And I am grateful that I have sisters looking out for my heart." He pulled back and sighed. "I think that if she is not the one I am meant to be with, then I shall never find her. She is my match in every way, Susan. You must believe that."

"I do," she said quietly, and then rose to her feet with a sigh. "Shall I go find her?"

"Please," Peter said, squeezing Susan's hand. "She may say she is feeling well, but she is ill just as I am. She needs her rest, and the cold will not help."

Susan nodded and disappeared from the tent. Lucy moved to where Susan had been sitting and wrapped her arms tightly around Peter. "We missed you," she whispered, voice crackling as she pressed her cheek against his shoulder.

"Lucy meant what she said earlier, Peter," Edmund murmured, his face suddenly pinched and pained. "The Cair … it has not been the same without you, Peter. I … we cannot rule Narnia without you."

"You can," Peter insisted, but Edmund only shook his head.

"We are fine rulers, each of us," he said. "But you are the thing that holds us together, Peter. You have taken care of us since we came to Narnia. If we ever truly lost you –" He broke off, his head drooping to hide his tears.

Peter swallowed. Another moment passed, and he untangled himself from Lucy to cross over to Edmund. He tugged the wrapping off his arm and shoulder, no matter how much it hurt, and pulled his brother into a tight embrace. "I am here again," he whispered into his brother's hair.

Edmund wept quietly, curling his fingers into Peter's back for something to hold on to. He didn't know how long they stood there with, but when they pulled back, Susan was back, peering at them fondly. Peter laughed and motioned for his sisters to join them. They did so eagerly, and the four Kings and Queens stood giggling together for several minutes.

They all were wiping tears from their eyes when Susan finally nudged them apart, and she leaned up to kiss Peter's cheek tenderly. "Go to sleep," she said, squeezing his hand. "We have already put Regan in bed – you should do the same."

He frowned slightly. "Is she here?" he asked, peering around anxiously. "I … I do not know if I could sleep without her near, Susan."

She laughed. "She is here," she assured him, and then arched an eyebrow. "Of course, you cannot continue this sort of behavior the whole way to the Cair. People will talk, Peter."

"Let them talk," he said firmly, kissing his sisters and clapping Edmund's shoulder. "We will be married soon, anyway." Susan pursed her lips, and he ducked back into the second partition.

Regan sat on the edge of the bed, running a borrowed brush through her hair. She hummed a commonly known Narnia folk song, the melody lilting through the air easily as she ran the brush through her hair in long, even strokes. He smiled and carefully climbed onto the bed behind her, wrapping his arms around her and pressing a kiss to the back of her neck.

She stopped humming and let the brush fall to the bed, sliding her hands along his forearms. "What is it?" she murmured, turning her head slightly.

"I love you," he murmured against her shoulder as she turned to press a kiss against his temple. "More than anything, Regan."

He felt her smile into his air, and her hands tightened around his arms. "And I love you," she whispered back. "Promise you will never leave me."

He laughed quietly and tugged her down into the sheets. "I will always be with you," he promised. "I will never leave you, Regan."

Her eyes grew bright and happy, and she pulled his mouth to hers to seal the promise.


	9. I: IX

___Never give all the heart, for love  
Will hardly seem worth thinking of  
To passionate women if it seem  
Certain, and they never dream  
That it fades out from kiss to kiss;  
For everything that's lovely is  
But a brief, dreamy, kind delight.  
O never give the heart outright,  
For they, for all smooth lips can say,  
Have given their hearts up to the play.  
And who could play it well enough  
If deaf and dumb and blind with love?  
He that made this knows all the cost,  
For he gave all his heart and lost._

Never give all the heart by W.B. Yeats

* * *

"If I never ride a horse again in my life, I think I shall be a very happy woman," Regan groaned as Edmund helped her down from her horse. Peter moaned out his agreement and gripped his horse's saddle to keep his legs from giving out.

"How many more days until we reach the Cair?" he asked wearily, accepting Edmund's help to a rock a few feet away. "Less than five?"

"Three, I believe," Edmund said, going back to help Regan to the same spot. "Or two, if you are willing to ride hard for one day."

Peter swallowed and shook his head, dropping his head between his knees. "I feel sick enough as it is," he managed, and felt Regan sag heavily against him. He turned his head and kissed her hand resting on his knee. "Three days. We can last three more days."

"Perhaps you should take a drop of Lucy's cordial," Edmund said after a moment, and Peter glanced up into his brother's worried face. "Both of you. She is very worried –"

"It is for emergencies only," Peter said abruptly, cutting him off. "We will not die from a few more days of riding. We are only tired, Edmund."

"Then perhaps –"

"We will be fine," Regan assured Edmund, squeezing Peter's knee once before pulling herself up to fetch some bread and cheese out of her saddlebags. "As soon as we reach the Cair, we will be able to rest properly, and we shall be good as new in no time." She sank back down on the rock and handed Peter half of the food, which he began to nibble on gratefully. "You worry too much, Edmund."

Edmund gave her a wry smile and bent to kiss the top of her head tenderly. "Peter is my brother, and you are going to be my sister," he murmured. "It is in my nature to worry." He straightened. "I will go find Susan and Lucy, and they will join us for lunch."

He disappeared into the crowds, and Regan let out a long sigh as she leaned against him. "I yearn for a warm bed," she mumbled, abandoning her meal for the moment to turn her face into his shoulder. "And something other than bread and cheese and broth."

Peter gave his own sigh and slid his arm around her shoulders, leaning back against the rock. "I know, dearest," he murmured. "But we will be home soon. And then we will be married …"

He felt her smile, and she turned her mouth up to his to kiss him. "I love you," she said happily, brushing back a stray lock of hair from his eyes.

"I love you more," he laughed, gladly kissing her back before returning to his bread.

The night grew colder than most, and Peter and Regan were forced to bundle themselves up in several layers of clothing to keep warm. They woke up stiff and sore the next morning, but climbed onto their horses without complaint. Neither talked most of the day, trying to conserve their strength until they reached the Cair.

And then finally – _finally_ – Cair Paravel came into sight, and a sense of relief filled Peter. He was home – his wonderful, beautiful Cair stood tall and proud and gleaming in the crisp, winter morning sun, and he urged his horse to go a little faster. Regan laughed and kept pace with him, both finding new energy at the glorious sight of Narnia's capital.

A loud cheer went up as they trotted into the courtyard, and Peter gazed around to find the space crowded with people. Others hung out of the windows and over the edges of balconies, each eager to catch sight of their returned king. He lowered his eyes to the pommel on his saddle until they rode into the blessedly empty stable.

"You cannot say you did not expect the court to come and greet you, Peter," Edmund said as he swung off his horse.

Peter was silent as he slid down from the saddle, gripping the stall door to keep his legs from giving out. "I did not expect that many," he finally murmured, sighing heavily. "I wanted to come back to the Cair in peace. I think I deserve some peace."

Susan tsked and jumped down gracefully next to him. "We will take the servant's entrance up to your room," she said, sliding an arm around his waist to support him. "Lucy will take Regan up to her room, and Edmund and I will take you up to yours."

"We can go up together," he protested, but Susan was already pulling on his arm.

"She needs time to rest and bathe and eat," she said. "Let her have some time alone, Peter. She is perfectly safe here at the Cair." He cast an anxious look back at Regan, who looked just as worried and frightened as he felt, before she disappeared from view.

Peter walked silently between Susan and Edmund, feeling more and more weary with every step he took. The mere knowledge that he was back at the Cair, that he was home and safe, banished the barriers he had put up around himself and left him yearning for a comfortable bed.

"Peter?" Edmund's arm snaked around his waist to join Susan's. "It is only a bit further."

"I am so tired," he whispered, tripping over his feet and sagging between them.

"Look, your door is there," Susan said, her voice anxious and loud in his pounding head. "Ten more steps, Peter, and then you may rest." There were more words, but the rest dissolved into garbled speech that he did not understand.

Susan eased him into bed, kissing his hair and smoothing it back from his face as Edmund tugged off his boots. Her mouth moved – he could feel himself frowning up at her and his mouth moving. He watched Susan and Edmund exchange a glance, and then darkness claimed him.

"Peter."

Susan peered down at him with a warm smile on his face, setting the tray down on his bedside table. "Are you hungry?" she asked brightly. "It is nearly dinner time, and I thought you must be hungry."

"A little," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes and pushing himself up carefully. "What time is it?""

"Dinner time," she repeated with a laugh, ruffling his hair. She pushed a bowl of soup into his hands. "Eat."

He leaned back against the headboard and carefully sipped at his soup, watching Susan as she bustled around the room to straighten things up. "Susan," he finally said, an amused smile forming on his face. "Stop."

"You left your room a mess," she said, shuffling papers around. "No one has been in to put your things away, and you need to be in a clean room to get better."

His spoon scraped against the bottom of the bowl several times before he spoke again. "Are you angry with me for leaving?" he whispered, setting his empty bowl aside.

Now it was her turn to dissolve into silence, and she sorted papers for a while before coming to sit on the edge of his bed. "I am not _angry_ with you," she said carefully, picking at a stray thread. "I _missed_ you. We have taken care of each other for a long time, Peter. We are the oldest – it has always been you and I taking care of Lucy and Edmund, and each other." She swallowed. "But you have Regan now. You do not need your sister to take care of you anymore."

"I need you for a lot of things," he said, reaching out to rub her shoulder comfortingly. "Susan, you are my sister. I will always need you. The fact that I will be married soon does not negate the past we have, nor the things you have helped me with in the past. You are still the queen – Regan will not be a reigning queen, Susan. There are things she will never understand about my life. That is what I need you for."

Susan looked up at him gratefully, and then leaned forward to embrace him. "Things are only changing rapidly," she said, rubbing at her eyes. "When you left, you were my brother. Now you come back to us with a woman we do not know and an entirely different attitude. You are practically a stranger to us, Peter, even after our travels back here."

Peter nodded and kissed the top of her head. "Yes," he said wearily. "I know. I change, yet you did not." He pulled away to gaze at her intensely. "But I am still your brother, Susan. I am still the same man, deep down. I have only changed my perspective on life. Always remember that."

She left a few minutes later with a ruffle of his hair and a smile, the door closing quietly behind her. He leaned back into bed and ran his hands over his face, sighing heavily as he tried to relax back into the sheets. It was no use, however. His belly was full of hot soup and his head still reeling from his conversation with Susan. He sat up and pulled himself out of bed, pulling on the gold chord to call for a bath.

He sank down into the hot bath water after the servant's left, groaning at the ache that settled into his muscles as he did so. He did not know how long he lay there, but he was still in the tub when the water had grown cold and filmy from the soap. He sighed and then plugged his nose, sliding down into the water until he was fully submersed.

When he came up with a splutter, there was a little scream and a loud thud. Peter coughed and hastily wiped his eyes free of soap to find Regan on her hands and knees, trying to find whatever she had dropped. "Did you lose something?" he asked in amusement, leaning over the side of the tub.

She jerked her head up, clutching a hairbrush to her chest. "I did not know you were in here," she said breathlessly, pushing hair out of her eyes as she scrambled to her feet. "Please forgive me." As quick as she had appeared, she was back out the door and gone.

Peter frowned at the door and carefully lifted himself out of the tub. What had gotten in to her? Was she frightened of him? Had she been surprised to find him naked in the tub? He dried himself with the thick towel set out for him and pulled on a clean nightshirt, folding himself into a robe before slipping through the door she had just gone through.

She sat at her vanity, raking the brush through her hair as if her hair were an animal that needed to be tamed. Upon catching sight of him in the mirror, her frantic movements became faster. He crossed the room silently and knelt next to her stool, reaching up to take her hand gently. She jerked away from him and threw the brush down on the vanity, standing and crossing to the window.

"Regan," he said cautiously, staying where he was. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," she said stiffly, folding her arms around herself. "Go back to bed."

He frowned at her back and rose from his crouch. "Everything is not fine," he said, gazing intently at the hair on the nape of her neck. "Tell me what troubles you."

Her fingers brushed against the windowsill for a moment, and he saw her jaw tighten from her profile. "You have been with many women," she finally said. "I would be a fool to assume that I would be the only woman in your life."

Peter frowned at her back and took a few steps towards her, stopping at the foot of the bed. "I do not understand what that is supposed to mean," he said slowly.

"It means that I am well aware of courtly rituals," she said angrily, turning around. "I am well aware of the traditions of kings everywhere, to allow another woman to fulfill your pleasures after the queen has had a child. I am not a fool."

He clenched a fist to stop himself from hitting something. "Are you accusing me of keeping a mistress once we are married?" he asked angrily. "That is absurd!"

"I know it is done," she snapped, folding her arms across her chest. "And I will not subject myself to that humiliation, Peter. If that is your tradition, then I will not– nay, I _cannot_ marry you."

Silence stretched between them, and Peter finally took a step back from her. "Do my words and actions from the last four months mean nothing to you?" he whispered, a deep ache settling into his chest. "I have given you every assurance of my love. I have told you of my past transgressions and begged your forgiveness of them. I care naught for having another woman in my bed that is not you!"

"You, sir, are used to throwing women away," she said, her voice cold and calculating now. "You fancy yourself in love with them one day and toss them aside the next when they no longer pleased you. We have only arrived back at the Cair – how do I know that your eyes will not stray to the beautiful servant girl you encounter tomorrow, that your heart will not abandon me?"

"You should trust me!" he snapped, smacking his hand against her mattress. "I know the things that I have done. I regret every one of them. But you - you should trust me enough to know that if I say I love you, then I do. If I tell you that I will not change my mind, then you should trust me to keep my word!"

"I have not seen you interact with any other woman other than your sisters, you daft man," Regan said, picking up her pillow and throwing it at him. "I cannot trust you because you have given me no premise of trust!" She threw another pillow. "We fell in love away from court. You fell in love with the only woman around you. Tomorrow you will enter the court as High King again, and there will be many women that will surround you, eager for your attentions again. What becomes of me when you decide that the beautiful woman you danced with at a ball has won your affections?"

"I will not change my mind," he snapped, crossing to her and giving her a shake out of desperation. "I have never found a woman here in court that I am able to love. Why do you not believe me when I say that I love you? That I will not abandon you?"

"Because I know you from a tent!" she shrieked, beating a fist against his chest. "I have known a simple man for the past four months, only to find that he is a king who is cavalier with women and in charge of an entire country! There are things you do, ways you act, that I have no part of!" She tore away from him and shoved her hair from her eyes. "You are a stranger to me now!"

"I am the exact same man that you met in that tent four months ago," he said, snatching a pillow off the floor and throwing it back at her. "I merely have responsibilities that require me to be –"

"To be what?" she asked in a low voice. "Unfaithful?"

It stung to hear such words coming from her mouth, and his arms hung limply at his sides. "You have no trust for me anymore, do you?" he murmured.

"You have not given me a reason to trust you anymore. Prove that I can trust you."

"I cannot," Peter whispered, taking a step from her. "I cannot prove anything." He swallowed past the hard lump suddenly in his throat. "Do you love me at all?"

Her face went from anger to surprise in an instant. "Of course I love you!" she said, her voice warmer as she took a step closer to him. "But I must know, Peter, that I can –"

"You cannot have love without trust," he said sharply. "Love comes from trust. It is the very foundation of love." He swallowed again. "If you do not trust me, then you do not love me. And I cannot marry a woman who does not love me, Regan."

She stared at him, and then took another step closer. "Peter," she said, voice higher than normal. "Of course I love you. I love you dearly – you are the dearest thing to me. But I –"

"No," he whispered. "No, Regan. You do not. You do not trust me." He bent for a moment to fetch her pillows from the ground, tossing them back into her bed. "This marriage is doomed to fail if you do not trust me, and I will not put myself through that."

He would say it fast. It would hurt less if he said it all in one breath. "I will tell them to cancel the wedding plans in the morning," he said, the words sliding from his mouth easily. "They will move you to a different room in the morning, and you may stay there until arrangements can be made for you to return to your home with your uncle or in Archenland with your father. We will, of course, take your measurements and get you proper clothes for your stay at court."

He moved towards the door, and stopped when he opened it. "I wish you would stay," he whispered, swallowing hard. "I beg you to stay. But you must understand. I cannot have a wife who does not trust me. If you could learn –"

He broke off and gave a little nod, one that he had perfected as the polite way to leave someone's company. "Goodnight, my lady." He fled through the doors of the marble bathroom before she could say anything, locking the doors behind him.

He slid down the door with his face in his hands. What had he just done? Surely this was only a misunderstanding, and things would clear up in the morning. Or perhaps he was dreaming! He pinched himself – he stayed crouched against the door in the dim light. He should apologize – the wedding would go on, they would be married, she would learn to trust him, and they would –

No. He would not go back in there. The fault was hers, not his. She did not trust him. She did not love him. Why would he want to marry a woman that did not trust him? He would be a fool. What kind of marriage would theirs be if she did not trust him to be around other people? He could not live with that sort of suspicion in a wife. He needed a wife to help him bear the burden of responsibility that came with being king.

He pulled himself and straightened his robe resolutely. He would not mourn over the loss. He would move forward with pride and dignity. He would treat her cordially, as an indifferent acquaintance, until she left to go home. They would never mention what had passed between them again, and if anyone asked, he would tell them that she wished to return home, and he had fooled himself into believing that he was ready for marriage.

He blew out the candles around his room and slid back beneath the blankets. Tomorrow things would be better, perhaps even clearer. He would get back to work tomorrow to make Narnia a great nation. He blew out the last candle, plunging the room into darkness.

He hardly slept that night. He tossed and turned until the wee hours of the morning, when he finally settled into a fitful sleep. He woke when the servants came in the next morning to stoke the coals in the grate, and he stared at the blazing flames for what felt like an eternity. He finally pulled himself up when there was a knock on the door, wrapping a robe around himself as he went to answer it.

"You look awful," Lucy said cheerfully as she stepped into the room, bearing a tray of food that made his stomach lurch. He closed the door and watched as she set the tray down on his desk, sinking down on the edge of the bed heavily.

"I feel fairly awful still," he murmured, "but better than I have been. I thought I might get some of my correspondence done today –"

"No," Lucy said, bringing him a plate of fruit. "Regan told us yesterday that we were supposed to make sure that you stayed in bed and rested for a few days, and that she would come in this morning around breakfast and see how you were doing."

His mouth went dry, and he kept his hands down instead of taking the plate from her. "I …" He swallowed. "I do not think she will be coming in. We –"

"What do you mean, she will not be coming in?" Lucy asked, shoving the plate into his hands. She laughed once and turned to pour him a glass of juice. "Of course she will. You may be the High King, Peter, but you cannot order _her_ around. She is to be your wife!"

Peter stared down at the fruit in his hands, his appetite fleeing quickly. He swallowed and set the plate aside. "Regan and I are not going to be married, Lucy," he said as calmly as he could, and then stood up to splash water on his face.

When he straightened up, Lucy was staring at him in horror. "What do you mean, you are not getting married?"

"Exactly what I said," he replied, patting his face dry. "We spoke about it last night. She is being moved to different quarters this morning, and arrangements are being made for her to return home to her father or her uncle as soon as possible. I know she must miss them."

Lucy grasped his shoulder and yanked him around, eyes wide and mouth open. "Peter," she whispered. "What happened?"

"Nothing," he said with a shrug, pulling away from her. "There is nothing to say. We decided that we were not suited to one another. I am not able to give her the life she wants, and I need a wife to support me." He shrugged again. "There is nothing more to say about it, Lucy."

He crossed the room and opened the doors to his wardrobe, searching through the clothes stored there. He pawed through them aimlessly until he felt Lucy's hand on his shoulder. He yanked away from her again. "I do not need your sympathy," he hissed, feeling like a wounded animal. "What is done is done, Lucy. Regan will return home, and I will go back to bearing my burden alone." He slammed the wardrobe shut and heaved a sigh. "Thank you for breakfast. Tell Susan and Edmund that I will join them in the throne room soon."

Lucy's nostrils flared in anger, and she drew her hand back. "Keep your pain to yourself then," she whispered. "But you, Peter Pevensie, are a fool for letting that woman go."

The door slammed as she left.

* * *

Peter and Regan said indifferent, polite goodbyes two weeks later in front of the court. She gave the same polite smiles to everyone who thanked her for helping the king in his hour of need but did not speak unless necessary. She did, however, give long embraces to Edmund, Susan, and Lucy, and both his sisters were crying when they parted. Peter gave her a hand the customary kiss, and their eyes lingered together for a moment before they separated, and she mounted her horse. Her uncle had sent four guards and two ladies to escort her back to his estate in Northern Narnia, and they gathered around her as she adjusted her skirts and clutched her reins in one hand. A sharp whistle followed, and she was gone.

Edmund, Susan, and Lucy exchanged worried glances as he led them back to his office for their midday meal. He was silent until he shut the door, and then he sighed.

"I will not break if you say her name," he told them firmly. "We had irreconcilable differences – no one is at fault here. Besides, I am glad to learn of them now instead of after we were married. What would have happened if we had discovered we were unable to live with each other for the rest of our lives?" He swallowed. "No. It is better this way."

Susan sighed and chewed on her lip. "We worry about you, Peter," she whispered. "You have been so quiet ever since that night – when you were with her, you were –"

"Happy?" he asked bitingly, glaring at her. "Yes. I was. And I do not want to discuss this anymore. Let us eat."

They ate in silence that day, and the next, and the next. No one was willing to break the silence and risk Peter's harsh words again. He was silent and calm, pushing away hi sown feelings for the sake of Narnia. He would be strong through this. He would allow his heart the time to mend, and then he would move on.

A month later, they ate in the small dining room they often occupied when they wanted to eat alone. The sun streamed in through the windows from the west, glinting off the feet of snow that had fallen earlier in the week. Normally, Peter would have been thrilled to see so much snow. This year, however, the sight did nothing for him. It only reminded him of the chill in his own heart that could not be shaken.

The wine glass slipped from his hand, and he watched as it shattered on the marble floor and spilled its contents over the intricate designs. "Peter!" Lucy said in alarm, drawing her feet up to avoid her slippers being soaked. "What is it?"

"Regan left me," he whispered, hand falling limp against the arm of the chair. "She left me. She is not coming back, is she?"

There was a dull scrape of a chair against the marble, and Susan's hand lifted his chin. He blinked at her, and then shook his head to hide the tears forming in his eyes. "Oh, Peter," she whispered, pulling him close as he began to weep.

"I miss her," he wailed into her shoulder. "I miss her. I should not have let her go. I should not have let her leave."

"Shhh," Lucy whispered, and he felt her kiss his hair. "Peter, everything will be alright. We will help you through this. This ache will pass, Peter."

"I will always love her," he breathed, squeezing his eyes shut. "I cannot love another. Not like I love her. I will never love another woman like I love her." He dissolved into tears again,

Susan looked up at Lucy and Edmund with sorrow in her eyes. How were they to help him? This was a broken man they now held. She had ruined him without so much as a word to any of them.

How were they going to put him back together again?

**A/N:** Merry Christmas to all those who are celebrating tomorrow and the 25th, and am I correct in assuming Hanukkah is going on right now? Happy holidays, regardless of what you celebrate.

I have about half of the next chapter typed up, but I'm a little at a stand-still with what to do with our dear Peter and Regan. The natural assumption would be to see them married and have them live happily ever after, but their story really goes much deeper than that. It's about enduring through the trials in life and promising to be faithful to one person, even if you can only promise that when everything is said and done. I would REALLY enjoy (and appreciate) some feedback on what you'd like to see happen. I have my mind almost made up, but I'd still like to hear your thoughts on the matter. This isn't a plea for reviews - if I was writing this based on the amount of reviews I get, I would have stopped a long time ago. I really am genuinely interested in hearing what you have to say on this matter - even a private message will do for me, if you'd like.

This fic is now going to be a multi-part fic (haven't decided on the number of parts yet) all under the same story. I've done this to address Peter's time spent in Narnia and his return to England (yes, he's going to go back to England - I'm not going to stray from canon THAT much ...).

Thank you all so much for reading! It's encouraging to know that people are enjoying this enough that they want to continue reading it. Thank you all especially who have added this onto their Alerts and/or Favorites list, and a special thanks to all who have reviewed. I realize that I don't say that enough. Hope you enjoyed this installment, and stay tuned for the next!


	10. I: X

**A/N:** Here is the next installment of _Eternity._ Someone commented on the last chapter that things between Regan and Peter seemed to fall apart really quickly, and that's just because this chapter was supposed to come pretty quickly after it but I couldn't get everything figured out right. This chapter explains a little more about what happened while they were traveling - there's a nice little discussion between Regan and her brother, as well as flashbacks between Regan and Peter. Please enjoy!

* * *

I want you to know  
one thing.

You know how this is:  
if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch  
of the slow autumn at my window,  
if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash  
or the wrinkled body of the log,  
everything carries me to you,  
as if everything that exists,  
aromas, light, metals,  
were little boats that sail  
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,  
if little by little you stop loving me  
I shall stop loving you little by little.  
If suddenly you forget me  
do not look for me,  
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,  
the wind of banners that passes through my life,  
and you decide to leave me at the shore  
of the heart where I have roots,  
remember that on that day, at that hour,  
I shall lift my arms and my roots will set off  
to seek another land.

But if each day, each hour,  
you feel that you are destined for me  
with implacable sweetness,  
if each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me,  
ah my love, ah my own,  
in me all that fire is repeated,  
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,  
my love feeds on your love, beloved,  
and as long as you live it will be in your arms  
without leaving mine.

- If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda

"_Have you sent any instructions back about the wedding?" Susan asked one day over breakfast. _

_Peter and Regan shared a look, and Peter shrugged. "I suppose I had not even thought about sending anything back with the griffins," he admitted. "We have hardly discussed ourselves."_

_Lucy laughed and drew her knees up to her chest. "I am sure Tumnus will be only too glad to do whatever it is you ask of him," she said teasingly._

"_Then perhaps you should send the message back," Peter said, sticking his tongue out at her. "We all know how fond he is of you." Lucy turned red and reached for another piece of bread._

"_I know that _small_ is a foreign word for a royal wedding," Regan said after a moment, "but there really is no need to go overboard. I am a very simple woman – simply being married is all I care for." She smiled at Susan. "I believe I shall just leave the planning up to you. Plan us a ball with all the fixings, if that is what you wish."_

_Peter choked on his bread. "No, not all the fixings," he said quickly, and then gave an apologetic look to Susan. "I know how fond you are of parties, but I agree with Regan. Smaller is better. Simpler is better."_

"_You are High King," Susan huffed, frowning at him. "It is expected of you to have a magnificent party!"_

"_Susan," Edmund said soothingly, ever the diplomat, "they only want to be married with as little fuss as possible. It is better to get these details done here so we can put it all together as quickly as we can when we reach the Cair."_

"_Fine," Susan finally conceded. "We will have a smaller, simpler party. But that only means that Regan's coronation ball will have to be the –"_

"_Yes, yes, we know," Peter said with a sigh, standing up and offering Regan his hand. "It will be the highlight of the season, Susan." He bent and kissed his sister's hair. "We leave it in your capable hands to plan. We will be back soon."_

"_Do not go too far," Lucy warned, looking up from her bread. "We wanted to leave by mid-morning."_

"_It will be a short walk," Regan promised her, looping her arm through Peter's before they disappeared into the little copse of trees near the edge of the camp._

_They only walked a short while before Peter stopped and pulled her into his arms, pressing a kiss against her shoulder as he buried his face against her neck. "I could not sleep last night," he said with a sigh._

_Her arms came around his neck, and she stroked her fingers through his hair. "You should have woken me," she murmured, kissing his ear several times. "I would have given you some herbs to help you sleep."_

_He shook his head and tightened his arms around her waist. "Mmm," he mumbled noncommittally. "You need your sleep as well. I cannot wake you for every ill and ache I have."_

_She laughed and pulled away, cradling his face in her hands so she could kiss him. "I am going to be your wife," she reminded him. "It is part of my job to take care of my husband."_

_He smiled and scooped her up into his arms, flinging her over his shoulder. She shrieked. "Peter!" she yelled, banging a fist against his back. "Put me down!"_

"_You said your job was to take care of me," he said smugly, carrying her further into the cover of the trees. "And take care of me you shall."_

_She laughed against his shoulder and let him carry her off._

* * *

_Her fingers traced a slow, steady pattern against his chest, and he smiled down at her, hands tangling in her hair. Her breath hitched, just as it always did whenever he smiled. There was such joy that radiated in his eyes, and it warmed her straight down to the soul._

"_You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," he whispered against the skin of her shoulder._

_She laughed. "Do you say that to every woman?" she teased, stroking her fingers along his back._

"_Only the woman who holds my heart," he murmured, grinning up at her as he attended to her bare skin. She shivered and tugged him up to her mouth so she could kiss him and kiss him and –_

"_Peter?"_

_They both froze. "Peter?" came Edmund's voice from in the outer portion of the tent. "Are you here?"_

_Peter sighed and dropped his forehead to Regan's shoulder. "Damn him," he muttered, sliding out of bed and pulling his robe on. She sat up, clutching the blankets to her naked frame, watching as he disappeared past the tent flap. She heard his low voice responding to Edmund, and she fell back against the pillows with a sigh._

_This kind of late night interruption had become commonplace over the past two weeks as they traveled back to the Cair. If it was not Edmund calling his name to brief him on the current status of Narnia, it was Susan who was calling to fuss over his health. If not Susan, it was Lucy to shower her oldest brother with smiles and kisses and sweets. _

They spend every day together, _thought Regan grumpily, rolling over in the sheets and pounding the pillow beneath her head. It was true – they rode at the front of the army together, took their meals together, and spent an hour each evening reading to each other. She was included in these activities, but her time alone with Peter had been severely lacking. _

_Night was the sacred time in which they could simply lay in bed together and whisper their secrets to each other. She felt safe in their bed with Peter's arms wrapped around her and his mouth pressed against her ear. She slept better than she ever had, she smiled more, she laughed more – _

_Peter appeared in the tent flap, looking annoyed and weary. "Edmund needs me," he said simply, crossing the room and sitting on the edge of the bed. "They are going over routes to get back to the Cair – they do not know which ones will be blocked."_

_She frowned up at him. "Why do they need you?" she asked, reaching up and trying to pull him back down. "Come back to bed, dearest, you need –"_

"_I do not know," he said with a sigh, kissing her forehead and pulling away. "But I am needed. I will come back to bed as soon as I can, I pro-"_

"_Go, go," she huffed, waving him off and reaching for her nightgown._

_He frowned in worry. "You are angry with me," he said, and reached for her. "Regan –"_

"_You are needed," she said simply, pulling her nightgown over her head. "You do not want to keep them waiting, Peter." She kissed his cheek and then slid down into the sheets. "Goodnight."_

_He did not return until the light in the tent had lightened as the sun rose. She stirred as he slid into bed next to her. "Peter?" she mumbled, turning her head and rubbing her eyes._

"_Go back to sleep," she heard him whisper, and his arms came around her. "We will stay here for the day. Go back to sleep."_

* * *

The fire flickered in the grate, casting dark shadows against the walls and along the floor. Glass clinked together, followed by the steady thrum of wine being poured. Fabric rustled as bodies moved against the sofa, and then someone spoke.

"I am fine, you know," Regan murmured, staring into the flames. She glanced up from her goblet of wine and raised her eyebrows at her brother. "You do not need to keep up with those glances, Rowan. I have been home for a month. I am not going anywhere."

Rowan of Caullenwall took a long drink of his own wine and raised his own eyebrows. "I am not afraid of you going anywhere," he said, his voice rich and deep. "You have already gone somewhere that I cannot follow, Regan. I am merely waiting for you to come back and talk to me."

Regan rolled her eyes and leaned back against the cushions, drawing her legs beneath her. "You do not make sense," she said. "I am home with you, Rowan. I have not –"

"Your mind is still back at the Cair," he said loudly, eying her over the rim of his goblet. "You are here physically, Regan, but your mind and your heart is far away at the Cair."

She turned her eyes back to the fire with a scowl, adjusting the belted tunic and leggings she wore. She was free to shed proper women's clothing here at the Caullenwall estate, and much preferred wearing a tunic and leggings to heavy dresses of the court. "There were many diverting things at the Cair," she finally said. "It is a very different place from Caullenwall Manor, Rowan. There are things to see, people to meet -"

"And one person in particular," he murmured. "You are thinking of one person in particular, Regan. I know that look in your eyes."

She was silent, and he moved to sit next to her, grasping her shoulder gently. "Tell me who he is."

"There is nothing to tell," she said, rising from the chaise and going to refill her wine glass.

"Is he a peasant?" Rowan asked, leaning over the back of the chaise. "Is that why you are ashamed to tell me of him?"

"I am not ashamed of him!" she snapped, whirling around. Then she spotted Rowan's triumphant look, and she sighed, rubbing her eyes. "I am not ashamed of him. I am ashamed of myself."

"Ashamed of yourself?"

Regan sighed and slowly made her way back to the chaise, sipping sullenly on her wine. "His name is …" She swallowed. "It is better that you do not know it. But he was a prisoner in the Tribes with me. We … he was all I had. He came at a time when I had nearly lost all hope, and brought hope to me again. And when they came and found us, we stayed close – insisted on staying close, because we were still so afraid to lose each other after what had happened."

Rowan reached out and touched her shoulder again. "You are in love with him," he whispered.

"So much in love with him it hurts," she confessed, setting her goblet aside and picking at a hole in her sock. "He is my match."

He frowned. "Then why are you here?" he asked, voice confused. "Why are you not with him?" His face grew angry. "Did he send you away?"

"No. He asked me to stay."

"You left him?"

She nodded sadly, resting her chin on her knees. "I did," she admitted. "We were engaged, you know. Engaged to be married. He asked the night we were found – said that any talk there was in the court about our circumstances of engagement, that he would tell them that he loved me, that we were going to be married, that –"

"The circumstances of your engagement?" Rowan's voice had gone very quiet, his hand stilling on her shoulder.

She looked up at him in guilt. "You must not get angry, Rowan," she whispered, twisting the bottom of her tunic in her hands. "I … I was not treated well in the camp, and he was only trying to help –"

Rowan grasped her arms and turned her towards him firmly, shaking her once. "What did he do, Regan?" he asked, his voice hard.

"I asked him to do it!" she cried, trying to pull away from him. Memories of other men, of hands rougher and more calloused than his, threatened to bring back the memories she had tried so hard to stifle. "Stop! Let me go! You are hurting me!"

He let go of her instantly, and she darted across the room to stand near the fire. She stood there for several minutes, shaking and clutching her throat between her hands. "Regan," Rowan whispered. "What is it?"

She swallowed back her tears and shook her head. "I did not tell you and Uncle about it because I did not want you to worry," she said quietly. "I was not an innocent when I met Peter, Rowan. The Wild Men … they are a vicious breed. They do not treat their prisoners kindly."

The look on Rowan's face nearly broke her heart. "They touched you?" he whispered, and then put his face into his hands. "Regan … why did you not tell us?"

"You did not need to know," she pleaded, sinking down beside him once more. "I knew it would only bring you pain. Besides, I am all right. There is no permanent damage!"

"You thought that I was one of them!" he suddenly said, jerking back from her. "Of course there is damage! You would think that your own brother was one of those Wild Men who touched you and –" He shuddered, and then clasped her close to his chest. "No one will ever hurt you again, Regan. I promise."

She smiled against his shoulder. "That is a very hefty promise," she murmured. "You are a very kind brother. The best there is."

They sat there in companionable silence for a few minutes, and Rowan finally pulled away. "Peter," he said. "That is his name?"

Regan flushed. "Yes," she murmured, her eyes dropping to the floor. "Peter. Tis a good name, I think."

"He touched you, too."

"Yes," she said, and lifted her chin stubbornly. "I asked him to. He did not want to at first, but I asked him to. I loved him then. I needed to know that not every man is vile and cruel. He showed me that, and I loved him more for it."

Rowan frowned. "Then why did you leave him?" he asked, confusion evident on his face. "Why did you go, after he asked you to stay with him? Why did you leave if you love him?"

She swallowed and picked at a hole in her sock again. "Because I was afraid," she breathed. "I was afraid of letting myself love him." She rubbed at her eyes. "I was not the first woman he was with, and that fact frightened me. When we arrived at the Cair, he had duties thrust upon him, and I was afraid that he would find a woman to love that was more beautiful, or more womanly, who did as she was told." She laughed bitterly. "I was afraid of being left with nothing but a broken heart. So I fled and came home."

She hugged her knees tighter to her chest and sighed heavily. "But this does not feel like home anymore. Home is where he is. I fear I shall never have a home again."

"Then return to him," Rowan urged her, leaning towards her. "Write to him. Invite him here to meet Uncle and Father and I, and tell him that you have seen the error in your ways." He ran a hand over her hair. "If he loves you as much as you love him, he will understand."

"I told him I did not trust him," she said sadly. "I told him I did not trust him to betray me with another woman. He told me that love without trust is not love, that if I did not trust him I did not love him." She shook her head and hugged her knees tighter. "He will never forgive me for what I did."

Rowan fell silent, stroking her hair carefully as he turned back to gaze at the flames in the grate. Finally, he sighed and drained the rest of his wine. "Did you meet the High King while you were a prisoner?" he asked, voice now full of curiosity. "I heard he was a prisoner with you … that was why they came."

She swallowed. "I did not know he was the High King while we were in the camp," she whispered, "but he told us as soon as we were safe."

"Funny, I think," he said, standing up and moving to put his goblet away, "that your lover's name is Peter. Is that not the name of the High King?" He fixed her with a knowing glance, and then disappeared.

* * *

_Peter stumbled into the tent after dark, exhausted and feeling as though he would drop at any moment. Regan looked up from where she was settled on the chaise and rose quickly, crossing to him and wrapping her arms around his waist. _

"_You must stop staying out so late," she insisted quietly, kissing his jaw. "This is doing nothing for your health, Peter. You need your rest."_

_He nodded silently and sank down on the chaise she had vacated, grateful when she pushed a bowl of hot soup into his hands. He ate it quickly and held it out to be refilled, nibbling on a hunk of bread as he waited. _

"_We were discussing routes home again," he explained, kissing the inside of her wrist when she handed the bowl back to him. "There are several roads that are blocked because of the snow, and we have to have enough room for two hundred men and our supplies to get through."_

"_And that requires you to be out all day?" she asked pointedly._

_He glanced up at her and frowned slightly. "I am the king, Regan," he said slowly. "They want and need my opinion."_

"_Edmund could come here and ask you things," she said, raising an eyebrow at him. "Why must you always be the one to –"_

"_Stop," he said harshly, raising his voice for the first time at her. He set his bowl aside and stood, grasping her by the shoulders. "Listen to me very carefully, Regan: I am High King of Narnia. I have the responsibility to care for my country weighing upon my shoulders. Edmund and my sisters are wise, strong leaders in their own right, but I was named High King for a reason. It is me they depend upon, and I must be there for all things to give them guidance should they need it. If you are going to be my wife, you must understand this. I cannot always rest or take a break. I have been gone for several months and have much to do when I return to the Cair, and I will be constantly moving until the time I get up until the time I go to bed. I need you there to support me."_

_She swallowed, and he could feel her trembling beneath his hands. He sighed and drew her close, kissing her hair. "Forgive me," he murmured. "It will not always be like this. I promise. Only for a few more months. Can you endure this for a few more months?"_

"_Yes," she murmured, curling her fingers into his tunic. "I only want you well. I have never known you in health, Peter. Only sickness. I want to know you in both states."_

_He laughed quietly against her ear and squeezed his arms around her. "I am already well on my way to being healthy again," he assured her, and pulled away to kiss her tenderly. "I love you. I do not want you to ever forget that."_

_She pulled his mouth back down to hers. "I will not," she breathed, tugging him further into the tent. "I promise I will not."_

* * *

"I must admit, Peter, that I did not expect you to call for me again."

Peter, from his place at the window, shrugged and scratched his chin slowly. "I wanted to see if your presence would ease my troubles," he murmured. "It has countless times in the past."

There was a rustle of fabric behind him. "And has it?"

He swallowed. "No. It has not."

A few moments of silence passed, and pale, thin arms twined around his waist from behind. "Shall I try again?" Cora whispered against his spine.

A smile tugged at his mouth, and he grasped one of her hands to press a kiss against her wrist. "No," he said in amusement, "but thank you. I appreciate the thought." He turned and sat down on the windowsill, rubbing at his eyes wearily before reaching up for her. She settled down on his knee and brushed a kiss into his golden curls, pulling his head down to rest against her collarbone. He sighed and buried his face into her long, black hair, and she slid her arms around him.

"This is about the Lady Regan," she said wisely, stroking her fingers over his shoulder blades.

He sighed and shut his eyes. "You are far too observant to be allowed to console me," he muttered. "You know me far too well. What made you think of that?"

She kissed his temple. "Your soldiers came regaling us with stories of the High King and the beautiful lady Regan of Caullenwall. They said that, although you were in poor health, it was the happiest these men have ever seen their king. Now you are well on your way to recovery, and you have turned into a quiet, sullen –"

"It is so refreshing to know that my soldiers tell the court about what happens in my personal life," he said dryly, pulling his head up with a sigh. "Is the entire castle aware of my plight?"

"Yes," she said carefully, "but only because we care for our king. We hold you in the highest regard, and we do not like to see you in pain. When you hurt, we hurt."

He snorted in amusement, and then fingered the sheet wrapped around her lithe little body. "Regan," he finally murmured. "Yes, it is about Regan." He swallowed. "We were going to be married … and then we had an atrocious fight the night we arrived here, and we both said awful things." He shook his head, and then glanced up at Cora with wild eyes. "She accused me of keeping a mistress after we were wed. I would _never_ keep a mistress if I had a wife, Cora, you –"

"I know," she said soothingly. "Everyone at court knows it, Peter. I am the only woman you have been with more than once. The idea of you keeping a mistress _and_ a wife is absurd." She ran her fingers through his hair. "So she accused you of keeping a mistress. What did you say?"

"I told her that she should trust me to be faithful to her, and that if she did not trust me, then she could not possibly love me, and that I could not marry a woman that did not love me."

Cora laughed and pulled him close for another embrace, murmuring soothingly against his ear. "Oh, Peter," she murmured, rubbing his back. "She is frightened. Can you not understand her position?"

He frowned and pulled away from her. "I thought you were supposed to be comforting me, not sympathizing with her," he said a little crossly.

"I am a woman, Peter," she reminded him, standing and moving towards the vanity as she tucked the sheet tightly around her. She settled down on the stool and began to pin up her dark tresses. "I understand what she is going through. She knows you not as a king, but as a prisoner and someone unimportant. She watched during your journey here as you became immersed in your duties as king again. You went from devoting most of your time to her to devoting more and more of your time to attending to duties of state. She grew frightened at the prospect of losing you, and put up a wall to prevent that." She paused, smiling sadly and reaching for another pin. "For a woman that truly loves you, for the man that you are, losing you would be unbearable."

Silence stretched between them, and several minutes went by before Cora spoke again. "Why have you not gone after her?" she whispered, dropping her hands from her half-pinned hair. "Why are you still here with the common whore?"

Peter stood and crossed to her, grasping her hands. "You are not a common whore," he said firmly. "Have I ever treated you like one?"

"It is not a matter of how you have treated me," she murmured, leaning forward to kiss his hair. "You have been one of the kindest, most wonderful man that I have ever known, Peter. But I am a barren woman – I have been my whole life. I knew the first night that we were together that I would be a passing phase in your life." She smiled and stroked his cheek once. "But this Regan – _your_ Regan – loves you. Be with her, Peter. Love her. Cherish her."

He reached up and pulled her close, kissing her hair a few times as he folded her into his embrace. "You were far more than comfort to me," he whispered, stroking her back. "You have been a wonderful friend these past years, Cora. Please tell me that I will not lose your friendship."

She laughed a little tearfully and squeezed her arms around his neck. "I shall return to my family in Galma," she said, kissing his ear. "They wrote me last week, asking if I could return home soon. I shall go home to them and live my life in peace."

He pulled her tighter and returned a kiss to her hair. "Will you write to me?" he asked. "If I ever need your counsel on anything?"

He felt her smile, and she pulled away with happier eyes. "Your _wife_ should counsel you," she said, and then stood to gather her clothing. She ducked behind the screen, and he heard fabric rustling as she continued. "If your Regan is anywhere near as wonderful as the soldiers say she is, then you shall not need to write to me at all."

"You have been my friend since I was sixteen, Cora," he pointed out, standing and moving to the window again. "I was young and foolish then – you have seen me grow up into a decent young man."

She emerged from behind the screen, her dress stays still unlaced. He crossed to her in their normal ritual so he could lace-up the back of her dress, and she held her hair over one shoulder just as she always did. "You did that all on your own," she told him. "Perhaps I was merely a stepping stone to your outlook on life today."

He finished her laces, and she turned to stand on her toes and kiss his cheek. "Now you must go to her," she whispered. "Whether she loves you or rejects you, Peter, we cannot continue like this. You must know, once and for all, of her feelings. Go to her."

He swallowed and nodded. "I will pray you have a safe journey back to Galma," he said, and kissed the crown of her head. "I will miss you."

"And I you," she said, and then moved towards the door. "You have been my dearest friend, Peter. Take care of yourself." And then she was gone, the door thudding shut heavily behind her.

Peter stared at the door until he heard a knock, and Lucy peered around the frame. "It is nearly time for luncheon," she said with a worried frown. "We did not know –"

"I am going away for a few weeks," he said suddenly, rising from his place on the edge of the bed and crossing to his wardrobe. He missed Lucy's surprised look, but heard the door shut as she slipped into the room.

"Where are you going?" she asked in alarm. "You cannot run from your duties, Peter. We –"

"I am going to Caullenwall Manor," he said simply, beginning to fold his tunics carefully and pack them away. "I am going to see Regan."

* * *

"_You are trembling," Peter whispered into the dark. "Are you cold?"_

_Regan shook her head and reached out to trace his features. "I could never be cold when you are near me," she murmured, fingers skimming across his jaw. "I am not cold."_

"_Then why do you tremble?" he asked, shifting closer to her. "What worries you?"_

"_You do," she admitted, letting her hand fall away from his face. "You frighten me sometimes."_

"_Me? How do I frighten you?"_

"_How much I love you frightens me," she said, and sat up. "You could break me in one fell swoop, and I –"_

"_Stop," he said gently, sitting up and wrapping his arms around her. "I love you, Regan. If I break you, I break myself. I could not imagine being without you."_

_She blinked at him, and then curled against his side. "Do you promise?" she whispered against his collarbone._

_He carefully pulled her back down into the sheets. "I promise._


End file.
